[Place of Purging]See me. Feel me. Touch me. Heal me (Mara)

[Sian The]

Spring 32, 512 AV A low groan slid over the lips of the young man stretched out on the bed turned examining table. It sat lower, perhaps, than a normal bed would, to accommodate the extra length of spidery arms that would perform whatever medical tasks were needed, for whatever patient occupied its narrow confines. Typically, the patient would bear a marked resemblance to the healer, in terms of pallid skin, elongated arms, shining black talons, and sharp fangs. But the one who moved restlessly on the bed was not a Symenestra. Obliquely angled, almond shaped, dark eyes perched over prominent cheek bones. Skin burnished to a ruddy golden tan by sun and wind showed dark against the pristine white of the bed covers. Fingers at the end of more closely proportioned arms were tipped only by filthy, ragged fingernails. And the words that fell half whispered, half mumbled from those cracked lips were in the common tongue – not unheard amongst the silken streets and globular constructs of the underground city. But not the regular speech of the huge majority of its inhabitants. Still wrapped in the remaining shreds of his dirt and blood grimed clothing, the human, who was barely more than a boy, slipped in and out of consciousness, seemingly unaware of his surroundings, and the fact that he was now safe – for the time being. His moans and fervent whispers spoke of pain, and fear – terror, even - though only one word in ten was intelligible. His body spoke more eloquently of the trials he had endured, though at whose hand – or what – wasn’t completely clear. Two gory holes pierced his body, in his chest and his right thigh, accounting for a good deal of the blood so liberally soaked into the fabric of his torn jacket and trousers. The one to his chest must have missed all things vital, for he could not have possibly survived if it had entered organs or any of the major blood vessels nestled there. The one to his leg laid bare the great bone of the thigh, and whatever had caused it seemed to have caused a good deal of damage on its way back out, for there was a jagged, rending tear above it. Frayed strips of cloth bound and padded both, in testament to efforts to stem the flow of blood, though all was soaked through and through. The stranger’s left arm was shredded as well, but with multiple deep, slashing like wounds, as if some implement of many sharp blades together had gouged into him and ripped downwards – or teeth perhaps. A closer examination would tell. The wounds ran from shoulder to elbow and the entire arm of his jacket was missing, His hand too looked like it had been gnawed by some hungry animal, with possible broken fingers to account for, once the blood and mangled skin had been thoroughly washed and cut away. On his neck, close to the jugular but again miraculously having missed it, was what was undoubtedly a bite mark. And above that, another source of the copious blood loss, was a head wound, a great messy gash that ran from two or three inches above the ear to the point of jaw and neck. Half the ear was gone as well. Glossy dark red still oozed from it, seeping down to soak into the pillow beneath the feebly turning head. Hiding under the leather of the young man’s boot was a smashed foot, with at least several of the delicate bones there fractured. All over in various spots were a collection of other contusions, lacerations, and injuries in widely divergent stages of healing, though none were older than, say, oh . . . a month. A month. Thirty days. And it had been about that since the Djed storm had come, and gone, and left devastation in its wake – at least for the world above ground. Here in Kalinor, though, the effects had been almost nil. But bit by bit, word had trickled in about life outside of their insular cave city. And in groups of twos or threes, sometimes more, refugees from that disaster had arrived at the silken gates and begged entry – and astonishingly, it had been granted. Apparently, this grievously wounded human was one of these, for he had been lain carefully on a bed in the wing of the Place of Purging now given over to the treatment of the growing number of such surface dwellers living, temporarily, in the city of darkness. In the bed next to him, lay another, with somewhat similar wounds, though the blood no longer flowed from them, for he had already passed into whatever lay beyond death’s door. And under the bed of the man who yet breathed, had been placed an iron staff, both ends bearing rusty red stains that hinted at a tiny portion of his tale.

[Mara]

Mara was employed with busy work; they had put him to the organization and sanitizing of various utensils. His dismal and jaded countenance was overlooked for imperturbability. Still they had deemed his assistance redundant for treatment of most full-blooded Symenestra. It was not like his occurrence was not detected among the population of the city, but they modestly favored for him to be out of sight and out of mind when at all probable. He set down the last of the magma-red metallic blades down upon their swathed tray, now abundantly equipped to be put to use in whatever modus obligatory.

Unwelcomed and incessant thoughts spun their tantalizing webs in his mind, linking strands of queries together until a large diagram of his uncertainties plagued themself on the gallery of his mind. The same entities as always, it was the explanation to why the mindless toil vexed him so prominently. To be left with nothing but his considerations was treacherous and transpired all too often. It had been days since adequate food and rest were taken to replenish him. Darkened circles encompassed the paling skin around his deep rubies, and the fissures between bones jutted almost sickeningly beneath the folds of his coverings.

"Dra-" the suave voice carried a natural slur to his words that could properly articulate the pre-fix better than any outsider.

Mara did not scan away from the tray, waiting for the continuance of whatever instruction they would now give him in silent tolerance.

"Dra-Marvasa, there is a new case. Human refugees brought in. There are a couple surrogates that need tending to, and so they want you to deal with it." The Common that was delivered was flawless except for the ringing pull of syllables that hinted to his thick accent and unrehearsed dialect.

"Refugees?" his head uplifted and skewed toward the willowed creature before him, not so very dissimilar to himself, but when put into a multitude, in fact their differences were worlds apart. "Are they alive?" his voice was a contradicting pronunciation of melodious tunes hinting to his Vantha origins. Earlier in the week he had been requested to dispose of the cadavers of several refugees. To his boundless dismay, any non-Symenestra were stirred to the endless pits to be devoured upon by whatever matter of creature lay below. A shiver volleyed down his spine, he was not so sure they would not do the same to his own body if he was to perish within the city.

"One, the other passed. Hurry to him. It looks bleak." the sentences were short and full of distant exacerbation at his questioning, as the ghost-colored body floated away from him in a toss of bleak painted hair.

Him. No surprise they could spare no one. It would be no great misfortune to lose a male refugee. Mara was not faultfinding however, he as much delighted in his actual work as he did detest the unsavory situations that would carry his skills to their peak.

His diminutive form rose from the seating, and ran a high-based alcohol over his sleek hands, before heading out of the room through the hollows of hallways and finally to the well-proportioned room of visiting patients.

He first landed upon the abundantly sheeted lump of a body, fully clothed and mangled limb hanging from the edge of an examining table. He swallowed hard, vigilant not to let any cracks disconnect his prudently constructed manner. Flitting across, next he took in the body remaining by him. A bronzed and chiseled figure, garlanded in vivid red packaging of red ribbons, and misplaced flesh.

His bulk was less covered, for blood still freely flowed from his unattended mutilations. He went to him hurriedly, seized a blade and commenced slicing the slivers of attire that still clung to him. Exposed behind each tatter was more cause for fret. The traveler's body squirmed at any touch too demanding or penetrating, as to be expected with such damages and still cleaving to life’s fair hem.

Sympathy filled him, witnessing the crumpling of his brow and haggard expression of pain. He positioned a palm to his cheek, and swept aside disheveled filaments of plasma-crusted tresses, with his stilled frontage, a warm gesture he would have abstained from had any witness besides a listless body been accounted for. His fangs drew in the punctured flesh of his lip and returned to his work with exploring eyes.

His first priority was to interpose the bleeding and scour the plight that so caked the traveler's body. He rose to receive a joined cloth, several wraps of thinly woven fabric, and a carafe of ale. He soaked the thicker cloth in the same substance already scenting his reaches and revisited to his side. He reached behind his patients scalp and boosted his head to a slight incline and pressed the bottle's rim to his entrance, delaying until he seemed prepared to sip it down, before he offered him a mouthful. "It won’t numb the pain, but it may help a little." The slenderer fabric was placed into the exposed maims still bubbling up their host’s magma. It was enough to at least dissuade its course so he could finish cleansing what was needed. Another glug was shambolically offered, the mixture seeping from the rims of his jaws in slender displays. He gradually and carefully began to stroke away the mess with the edge of his sleeve, before returning to the coagulating torrents that spewed over the curved and solid body, from feet to torso, to arms to fingers. So many things amiss with what he revealed even beneath the sticky mess. The congealed crust began to melt away and slide onto the rosy towel or the wrappings below him, staining the sheets in a deep maroon upon aeration. Between he would allow a break to offer more swill.

He recognized that it smarted. There were too many variable depths for it to not cause discomposure. He ran the moistened cloth over his head and neck to sop it up, and could now better see the missing and frayed chunks there. He dabbed at the ripped ear until there was little left but the cleanly butchered area. The bottle now extended halfway.

One bell passed. He had never worked on someone with this many abysmal injuries. It was not the injuries in their severity that was daunting but the sheer number of them. He absconded for a fresh towel only to return to the two latest injuries, the gaping holes of chest and lower extremity.

He removed the fully murky cloth, clotting the area. Some edges had begun to desiccate and crust, while the deepest stubbornly rushed a small pool into the area. "I'm sorry; I know you've been hanging in there. I'm afraid to say the worst is not over...." his voice uttered to him, hoping if he was aware of his pain inducing presence he could offer him some regret. He pushed into the newly austere wound, a flood of burning alcohol filling it and being absorbed or rolling off. He would have gripped his hand had the abrasions there not added to his discomfort, or offered him some more ingestible alcohol had he thought he could successfully swallowed it through such gritted teeth.

Once washed he permitted another drink and reached for his already prepared needle with a tail of Symenestra silk, pressing it in at the correct angle of a single edge until it soared easily through the other end. "I'll try and finish quickly..." he proffered, trying to block out his discomfort to quickly and easily slide the point through the skin and drag the punctured edges to a meeting point. The running suture, he knew it from retention, it was his most accomplished stitch. The image of his father's handiwork so carefully painting across his skin guided him through each action.

He completed rather quickly and pressed a bloodied palm to his tensing brow polishing a streak across his forehead. He stretched for the bottle, tempted to take his own drink, but repeated his gesture of feeding him the liquid. "Half-way there."

He washed away the congregated blood at the stitching so it was only a masterpiece of thread. He took a break in the form of dressing the wounds. A minty scented ointment removed from his pack and adhered to any and all available substances. He had finally concocted his own version of this herbal medicine on his travels, and pestered any traders that visited for their loads of acquired ingredients necessary until he was able to prepare a fair amount. It would be needed for he applied it generously to protect the scrapes and calm the burn of their bite. Any wound prepared and not adjacent to a potential fractured bone was wrapped in long strips of prepared textile. He went to work, weaving around his arms, then neck, then head and ear, chest and down to his legs and feet.

He was not even finished and the man was a variable globe of trimmed wrappings. He offered him another drink, the contents falling to almost bare. "Might as well finish this, the worst has come. I hope you are not a heavy drinker." He waited until the last was drop was emptied into his gullet and set down the container.

The final gaping gash was that at his thigh. A deep and shredding wound, he was unsure of where to even begin. He detached the heavily saturated material and made contact with his stringent cloth. Dabbing the tensing flesh until it was unblemished enough to attempt at. His needle was lifted and he went about pulling the surround edges together of where the skin had seemingly split from the utter force. The ivory bone peeked from beneath and he watched the pulsing vessels surrounding it expand and contract at a quickened bound to his own. He tacked as well as he could all surface that would reach so that it could form and build new renewed materials, there was no denying there would be scarring.

His fingers went to work wrapping about the injured thigh tightly as to keep it innocuous from anything that threatened to jostle it.

At last and conceivably most grievous was the fragmented bones. "I'm sorry. I don't have any more ale."

He relocated to his base first examining it, it looked decently severed, and the tissue was swollen and plum. He put force with his finger to try and find his line of attack, working through the protests of buckling members. It did not appear to need setting, he would not have had the strength to set an adult males leg on his own moreover. He took a thicker wrapping and twirled it about the swollen limb in numerous coatings until it was encompassed in a thick covering.

Finally the toes in fingers, the seemingly closing act need. He beheld them over, finding there were five breaks in total: Two toes and three fingers. One by one he seized the needed digits and cracked them back into place. His brow sweating and body ached as he accomplished the last of the casing, weaving the textile through abused digits in firmly wrapped cocoons.

Rising, he nearly collapsed, his enfeebled state had already lessened his stamina, and this was the longest he had worked alone on anyone. It had to have been half a day his efforts were spent. He found the counters ledge and leaned against it, turning his sight back to the deceased patient a table away. He walked to him on quivering supports and adjusted his position, crossing his arms across his chest and draping the cloth more appropriately over him. It would be the closest thing to a burial the man received.

[Sian The]

Sian was vaguely aware of a sensation – touch. The feeling of fingers pressing lightly over his body – here, there - and everywhere they touched, he hurt, badly. The touch was associated somehow with a pulling, against his tortured flesh, and another sensation – that of air moving more freely across skin that was now bare. His eyelids struggled to accommodate the growing sense of consciousness, and then there was a blinding white-hot stab of pain, and he slipped back into the blackness. But unfortunately, it didn’t last. A lack of sentience, of knowing how his body felt, would have been a blessing. But at the touch of something to his lips, his brain reacted as it must, for he was dehydrated, and it needed fluid. The taste was not that of water – the only liquid that had passed those lips in the past few weeks. Even in Lhavit, Sian rarely partook of anything but cold, fresh water from the mountain streams. This was different, slightly sour but also smooth, refreshing – ale. Try as he would though, his lips and tongue and cheeks seem to be all working at cross purposes, as if they all belonged to different owners – and none of them belonged to him. Half the ale trickled out the corners of his mouth, but he swallowed what he could, and felt the soothing kiss of the moisture on his parched throat. So too he was aware of the balls of fingers pressed into his scalp, a voice – but he could not make out the words. Then once again, he slipped away. And so it went. On, and on, and on. Nothing, followed by moments of near lucidity. Blankness, followed by excruciating pain. More and more, despite his exhaustion and loss of blood, the careful probing and skilled cleaning and care of the healer was bringing Sian to wakefulness, and to torture. Though he probably lacked the strength to even sit up, Sian’s mind kept telling him to react – to shove away that sadistic hand that repeatedly pushed and pulled his tormented flesh. To get up and run, to seek shelter from this cruelty. He might grit his teeth and grimace and groan, but that allayed his discomfort not one iota. From time to time, when he could actually think coherently, Sian thought the sadist working over him must be close to being finished. How much more could there be? How many more injuries could he have? Well, that at least he knew very, very well. One animal. Six major blows he had sustained. And Lane – where was he? Sian’s head tilted a centimeter but his attention was arrested by that voice, those hands, offering more to drink. Sian drank greedily and cringed inwardly. Half-way there? Only half-way? At the first prick of the needle, he moaned dismally, though he might easily have screamed. It was time, his mind was telling him. It was time to go away, to a place of peace. It was more than time. With the return of almost full cognizance, Sian focused on what he knew was his only hope of getting through the remainder of the ordeal. First, he concentrated on his breathing, feeling the air passing in and out of his nostrils, smelling his own blood but not letting the odor linger in his brain. Single-mindedly, he fought past the pain, and from the sensation of the air passing through his nose, he allowed his mind to choose an object to focus on – and it chose . . . the needle. Imagining its sharp, metallic form, he envisioned it passing through flesh and skin. Slowly, his mind entered the needle and became one with it. Instead of an object of torture, it became an object of virtue, recreating his body back to the form it had held before the storm. As it slipped through the fibers of his tissues, it brought redemption and rebirth – from its tiny form flowed the energy of life, and healing. It was so, because Sian willed it to be so. Once the needle had taken on the state of virtue, his mind concentrated on that until it too took on a virtuous state, his contemplation deepened, until it was almost as if he had caused himself to reach a state of unconscious thought. If the healer spoke, if his fingers and hands manipulated and reformed and bandaged and reset, even in the offering of more drink, Sian was unaware, through his conscious will to be unconscious to the pain. By the time Mara was done, exhausted with his herculean efforts, Sian seemed almost to be in a coma. It was his only defense, seeing as the others he was trained in had failed him, at the last. Wrapped in his cocoon, he slid deeper into the black, his mind working behind the scenes still, already busy with the business of rebuilding.

[Mara]

Exhausted, Mara hunched across the counter, gathering his breath. The traveler appeared to be absolutely cataleptic now, and with a bit of luck comfortable in a less excruciating stagnation. His performing acts were not at a finish, only pending to a slow. This he knew was undisputable. He left to persuade someone, anyone he could procure, to help him move his patient, and gather fresh sheets. It took some stint of time, but ultimately he succeeded in acquiring what was needed. A few employees came to assist and with ease they lifted the injured and substituted the bloodied sheets with unsoiled spreads.

As soon as they had disappeared, in all too readied haste, Mara collected a basin of lukewarm water. His fingers gripped its rim and rapped a pointed, blackened nail to his forearm, chilling the fluid so tiny crumbs of ice hung on the surface. He dunked a crisp cotton rag into the cool liquid and wrung it so it oozed its return into the vessel. He extended his length over Sian and smeared his heated face, before placing the rag on his forehead.

Looking him over his face was less spoiled than most of him. It was novelty to behold him after observing upon the same structure of beings he had lived amongst for the last seasons. Questions about him came to mind. Why did he find his way to Kalinor, with such obvious peril? Expressly with no warranty of admittance to the city, if it had not been for the storm he would have been turned away unless equipped with articles to trade. Maybe he was a trader, Mara had assumed he was not simply by his attire and weapon settled at the end of his bedstead, but he knew little of the cities outside of Kalinor, just what he had seen in passing. No, he must have left before the storm, but still, why? He had heard of the storm that had ensued overhead, and felt it in his existence, for some distress must have come to Avanthal. His eyes for weeks were tamper-proof in an ink colored smear, and his temperament equally as glum. It had subsided and so with it came the reappearance of his crimson irises.

His concluding act as healer were beginning, at the present he would wait and give his worthiest to keep his patient's body temperature regulated and offer him what comforts he could. They would not likely send summon for him someplace else and he did not disapprove staying. Seating himself near the bed he pulled from his sartorial a familiar journal. It contained his mother's opinions and views in writing. He overlapped his legs dexterously and reposed his wrists along his elevated knee and began to trace the pages. Each scan was an unbreakable code, and a unsatisfying jumble of memorized and meaningless symbols.

Time unrelentingly passed with little improvement and insignificant change. He was unrelentingly in the changing of the cool rag upon his face and would dab his lips with moisture in hope that enough would trickle past his lips to keep him hydrated until he woke and could take a proper drink.

He began to feel unwell himself and fatigued. His mind so tense and focused on too many tasks, he slumped against the frame of the table with book half-heartedly held in place. It did not take long for his lids to begin to wager and inevitably secure into place. He collapsed into a graceful and consoled slumber along the threshold of the unconscious’s cot.

[Sian The]

A cataleptic trance indeed, self-induced as defense to the grievous state of a body proven more fragile than Sian could ever have conceived. All the training that he had gone through, all the trials as an initate and then an acolyte, had not made his body strong enough, his limbs fast enough, his hands and feet agile enough, to withstand the inexorable brutality of the creature that he had encountered. So close they had been – so much they had already survived – but this last was just too much. And so he willed his body to deep seated relaxation, to rest in a dormant state, like a hibernating animal slumbering through the harsh extremes of winter. Still, his mind was not completely in idle. As he sank deeper into torpor, there was a part of his brain – the lobe which holds tenaciously to the most basic of instincts – which slipped away and refused to lie quiescent. In that part of who he was, a turbulent storm was brewing, almost the equal to the one which had created the extreme perils he had faced in the last few weeks, though it would only effect Sian and no other. Black clouds swirled with blood red flames. A pelting rain that burned the skin whipped through air almost frozen solid with cold. Volcanoes spewed forth blood and the skies dripped with the putrid, maggot ridden flesh of his fallen companions. And from the south, where lay a patch of utter blankness, it came after him once more. A nightmare beast which devoured the others before turning at last to the two remaining - the last survivors of the caravan of over forty men which had set out from Lhavit - Sian and the corpse now beside him. What immortal hand had framed that terror’s symmetry? Sian and his companions had no way to know about that one which had been released from his mountain prison to the north. But if they had, then truly they might have laid the genesis of the horrible, twisted forms they had had to fight off, day and night, at those feet. As this hideous beast drew near once more, Sian’s body shifted on the bed. A low moan hissed through his lips, and the fingers of his less grievously damaged hand twitched convulsively. For an eternity it chased him, through darkness so pure he could breathe it into his tortured lungs, his legs on fire, his many wounds seeping his life’s precious blood in a crimson trail behind. Before him lay an idea, the vaguest wisp of an impression of that which he sought, the partial shimmering embodiment of a face. But he could never get close enough to see. So on he ran. His hands stretched before him to grasp at something, anything, that would provide some safe harbor from the nightmare behind him. But there was nothing. Just as he felt the hot, dank plumes of its breath on his neck, smelled its putrescent scent in his nostrils – just as he turned to see that freakish maw opening wide to rend him into shreds, his mind saved itself from itself. He woke with a start. Eyes flipping open as if he had heard unexpected thunder, even the dim lighting of what was this underground city seemed too bright, and he blinked several times. Without even knowing if he was alone, he whisperd into the still air, in a raw voice no more than a croak, “Is this Kalinor?” "Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Could frame thy fearful symmetry? In what distant deeps or skies Burnt the fire of thine eyes? On what wings dare he aspire? What the hand dare seize the fire? And what shoulder and what art Could twist the sinews of thy heart? And when thy heart began to beat, What dread hand and what dread feet? What the hammer? what the chain? In what furnace was thy brain? What the anvil? What dread grasp Dare its deadly terrors clasp? When the stars threw down their spears, And water'd heaven with their tears, Did He smile His work to see? Did He who made the lamb make thee? Tiger, tiger, burning bright In the forests of the night, What immortal hand or eye Dare frame thy fearful symmetry?" "The Tiger" by William Blake

[Mara]

Mara, having tumbled into the nadir of slumbers devastating pincers, experienced no kink of disturbed frights or moan of a demanding patient. His remains laid still along the cot, sprawled on his stool’s fringe. Had he been cogent, he would have sheltered the entity of his charge and verified to safeguard the knocking of his wrappings and the newly interwoven hems of hide.

Instead he floated in a lifeless suspension of unanswered conundrums and graphic tributes of epochs much improved and extents amply inferior. His approach revisited to Avanthal, to the nightmarish years with a father that suspected he was deceived. The passive to aggressive behavior that resulted and the denunciations of murder that further fueled his disdaining of his own existence; it only made sense that others would feel alike. His hands were tarnished. His despairing plight was to atone for their passing by preserving life to those being deprived of it. Then the former months when he had stumbled upon a boy by some trivial accident. He did as his principles directed and came to his aid, only to find that he had wrecked through his barricades and opened his eyes to the possibilities of a life less lonely, the consecrations and the obscenities. Though whether he was an angel or a devil was indisputable, still a saint’s touch can burn when blanketed in the dismal.

His eyes flapped beneath gathered lids and ranks of lashes. An arm doubled beneath his resting head and an arm collapsed that had lost grip of his researching material. A composed air kissed his peaceful look even through the twisted workings of his inner eye.

The unexpected jerk of the bed's frame is what jostled him enough to awaken him. His eyes flickered open groggily soaking in the view of a disheveled and shuddering arm. His head darted up, now absolutely wide-awake to overhear the miniscule whisper "Is this Kalinor?"

Mara rose to his feet and, manuscript tumbling to the floorboards. He grazed over his compositions of binding and found them absorbing the pigments of darkened blood still leaking from such freshly divided sides. He fixed his grip down upon his shoulder to coax him to remain steadfast. "Yes. This is Kalinor." he replied him in a hushed tone. "You're in the clinic. You were brought into the city, and have been treated for your wounds." He anticipated the explanation would allow for less panic in his waking patient.

"You shouldn't move, your injuries are still too fresh, you'll burst a stitch." he warned and stepped away to receive his reheating water, and cooled it once more by Morwen's breath and dipped the rag to re-adorn his forehead.

"I'm actually surprised you’re awake. How is your pain?" once having pressed the towel in place he turned away again to fetch a water skin. He returned and slipped his fingers beneath his head that was becoming an acquainted sheen of dense fiber. "Here, I'm sure you’re thirsty." He offered him the water in one relaxed wave, his eyes locked upon the chapped lips he had been moistening over the last day.

"If your pain is too unbearable, I can find you more ale."

[Sian The]

Sian heard the plop of something hitting the floor and then a figure loomed over him. He felt the sensation of bed and bandages, and the memories came flooding back, of the gentle hands and the sharp needle – the tug of his flesh and skin as cool fingers pulled him back together, bit by bit. A face came into focus and all he seemed to be able to see were the eyes, crimson, as he could have expected. Any other details were lost on his brain which seemed to be at war with itself – one part vying for blessed unconsciousness, the other struggling for clarity. Of its own accord, his torso wiggled as if he would rise – as if he could rise – and he felt a gentle hand pressing him to stillness. And then came the voice, as soothing and comforting as those slender fingers. Yes. This is Kalinor. You're in the clinic. You were brought into the city, and have been treated for your wounds. The face that had evaded his subconscious thoughts as he fled through the terror of his dreams now swam before him, pristine and clear, every line and curve so lovingly etched in his heart and mind. So, he had made it. He had reached his destination, but in a totally altered state from that which he had expected to be when he reached the city of the widows. The healer was telling him to lay still, not to disturb what most have been extensive work to bind his wounds and try to return some semblance of wholeness to his body. Sian had no idea how exhausting those efforts had been, and had he known he would not have been awash with gratitude or sympathy for the Symenestra who had rendered him such service. He was a bit surprised, however. When he had tossed the powder onto the eternally glowing flame, below the gates, he had felt there was little to no hope that he and Gordon would be taken in. They had nothing, and they were men – why would the Widows give a rat’s ass about them? But it was beyond his capability to make sense of it all, as pain was once again flooding through every fiber of his body. It was enough to know that he had made it – and that he was actually inside their city of vile poison. Now all he had to do was to live. The healer’s voice and figure had receded and now was back. A cold cloth was placed to his warm brow. He posed his question and Sian wasn’t sure how to answer it, other than Almost unbearable. But bear it he must, and whining was not going to help make it any less. So he did not try to reply, and once again the healer stepped away and returned quickly. Where Sian lay on the bed, fairly immobile, it was if the healer was popping in and out by some magic. This time, he offered water, and Sian drank thirstily, his eyes better able to focus on the one who held the skin, and his head, with such professional solicitude. When the skin was taken away from his shattered lips, he swallowed the last bit, then attempted to speak. Once more, the sound was like the croak of a rusty pump handle, too long disused, the volume barely above a whisper. “Thank you. Was it you who was working over me? You are too kind.” Even that small effort, just to squeeze words over his tongue and past his lips was exhausting. “The pain is not too bad,” he lied, for really what point was there to complain of it, unless they had Mirage, which was unlikely. “I do not need ale, only – more water.” His eyes fluttered back shut for a moment, and he posed his next question without looking at the healer, for he did not want any hint of the reason for it to show in hopeful expectation on his face - though having finally really seen his angel of mercy, he thought he was correct in his guess. “May I know your name – so I may know who to thank in my prayers to the lady? I will ask her to bless you and your descendants for a thousand generations.”

[Mara]

Mara hummed his acknowledgement to the appreciations he received, a voiceless reminder that there was no requirement to strain himself with such things. He had done it out of duty. Many who dedicated their existences to the well-being of others would articulate the same. It was no complication as to who was laying on the table, or the purpose of their injuries, only that they were to be held alive by all the means they could deliver.

He looked skeptical at his statement that the discomfort was not too horrendous. He had operated on him for a preposterous stretch of time. It was impractical to make such a proclamation, but maybe he had set him up for such a response in light of his undeviating inquiry. He was more curious now as to what it was this man was achieving in being in Kalinor, would a simple trader have such pride in the face of such damages. He would never comprehend the intellect behind fruitlessly tolerating the pain. Maybe because he had not been incapacitated badly enough to have to persevere through any real anguish yet. Still he obeyed and presented him more water with no more disagreement than he had originated with. The water skin was pushed to his mouth again and a cool brook of water streamed out of it into his waiting entrance.

The final comment netted his attention. He was not sure of what he was voicing. Was this lady of his payers his goddess? Mara knew little of the gods and goddesses beyond Morwen. Morwen was a steadfast worship of his. She protected the city of his birth and salvaged his life when he had been at the threshold of death’s door. He owed her his dedicated service. It caused him to miss her, and remorse that he had been incompetent to properly offer his adoration to her.

The silence of his wandering contemplations had lingered just beyond a comfortable pause when Mara came to. "My name is," he at times despised his own name for to anyone who was Symenestra or Vantha, or with knowledge of either, it was evident he was neither. "Dra-Marvasa Whitevine." he smoothed a finger to visitor's neck, discerning the blood that had covered his wrappings in lavish smears of darkened rubicund. "I assure you, your prayers on my behalf are unnecessary. Thank you nonetheless." He knew not of this entity and presumed even if imploring with them, any prayer on his behalf would descent on deaf ears once aware of whom they spoke. It was unrealistic to consider any differently. His commitment to Morwen was only more than one-sided because he was part Vantha like his father, his life had been spared of love and compassion of his father. However he loved her all the same.

He reached for the new-fangled wraps and his borrowed blade. "I'm going to change these wrappings out." he informed him before pressing the thin metal to the man's neckline and risk being pounced on right there from a man that may fear for his life.

With careful strokes he began to slice at the bandages, and in an attempt to distract, he resolved to speak to him, if only momentarily. "This lady you pray to...who is she? Is she the goddess of your homeland?"

[Sian The]

The water skin was produced again and Sian drank deeply, knowing somehow that water was one of the essentials his body would need to mend itself back together. And then the healer spoke, giving his name, and Sian felt a catch in his chest. Surely – surely – Lady Zintila must be watching over him. Surely she had forgiven him for deserting his post – and her city. Surely she wished Sian to succeed on his insane quest – despite the trials he had already faced. That this young healer tending to him was a mixed blood - that product of the few enlightened females of this petching cursed city of widows that had enough sense to look for a mate who would not kill her with his god-rotted seed – was just another layer of wonderment for the Shinya acolyte who had come so far on such a slim chance of victory. It was another sign that Zintila’s hand hovered over him protectively and her bright, lovely eyes kept him under close watch. It was another sign that Zintila, too, desired that Jael should be returned to her little son. Sian drew in a painful breath, feeling as if his gored chest would explode from the effort, and on the exhale he breathed a silent prayer of thanks to his lady. “Dra-Maravasa Whitevine,” Sian sighed the name out like another prayer. “I will remember that. And do not doubt that my lady will reward you for this poor acolyte’s humble life.” Sian did not speak with false modesty or from any overblown sense of his own importance. But he knew that Zintila, with all she had gone through herself, would bestow her light upon one who had helped bring the very near dead back to life, through no reason of self-advancement. He lay still as those deft fingers touched his cloth wrapped neck, and he had no reason to suspect any hostile intentions on Mara’s part, even as the scalpel was pressed to his neck. Letting the healer do his work, trying to ignore the pain that washed in ripples through his many injuries like the relentless waves of the sea lapping at the sand, he said, “My lady is the lady of the stars, Zintila – she who fell during the Valterrian. Lhavit is my home, and it is her city. She dwells amongst us, and I have seen her, several times. I serve her . . . as best I can.” He fell quiet for a moment as Mara worked at the bandages. “She fell and yet she was found and rescued, offered succor and respite and aid.” His eyes sought out those of the healer who hovered over him. “Such acts of mercy and kindness can not go unacknowledged, regardless of the motivations behind them. In recognition of the life giving assistance that was rendered to her five centuries ago, I know in my heart that my lady will bless you, Dra-Maravasa Whitevine.” Sian paused, then asked, “And your own god - Viratas – he must be pleased with your efforts as well? When I am well enough, gods willing, I will go to his shrine and say a prayer of thinks to him as well, for your skills and care.” If Sian’s skin prickled up in good bumps at the thought of praying to the barbaric god of blood, in all likelihood the healer would not notice, or simply put it down to an effect of the pain his patient’s body was experiencing.

[Mara]

His name was respired in such a manner, it made him quiver and glimpse up from his work to behold the face that would utter such a curse with such impermanence and affluence. He returned to his carving of the multi-layerered wrap, until it fractured like a busted shell and fell, rigid with plasma, to each side of the masticated neck. It had not really come to his attention during his drudgery, for he was far too fixated, but what could have made these injuries? Deep, tearing perforated morsels and slices as if some meticulous butcher tasted his executed. It was unsettling if this was what was lingering above Kalinor.

Mara was carried back by the struggled push of words, and yet still he spoke with such vigor about this Zintila. He had in fact been made aware of her in silent passing. She was the desperate prayers of terrified surrogates that came from one home especially, Lhavit. He swallowed hard, but hid his discomposure. If Zintila, goddess of the stars and lover of the people of Lhavit, knew of him she would assuredly curse him for his participation in the Harvest. No matter how miniscule the effort, he was an associate to their charge. The blood of women from Lhavit and countless other cities, had been spilled while he worked here in the Place of Purging, was just as much on his hands for rousing not a sound against them. This one saved life from Lhavit was not enough to deliver him. He offered his own inaudible prayer of repentance to this Zintila of his penitence.

As he continued to listen he found that perhaps they may have had some relation if things were altered. Her account had never been illuminated to him, and in a way she reminded him of what Morwen may have been many centuries before him. He nodded his reception of Sian's assurance. "I express my thanks to her, that your life could have been aided by my hand then."

Viratas. Yes he pursued him, and was coming to hold him dear, just as his Mother had, and he had loved her. They were still silent strangers though, but he took comfort in his teachings, that all blood was of worth, and favor would come to those that spared life. It was satirical the relations the Symenestra had with this god. He could only guess that surrogacy was seen as an exchange and therefore not viewed as slaughter. Still his oath to himself and now to Viratas had been to recompense the life lost and blood spilled because of his life, from now till his life ceased to exist. He would be held personally responsible by Viratas if not upheld.

"Yes, Viratas and I are newly acquainted. He is a just god, just as you speak of your Zintila. In his eyes all life is equal. Though my true knowledge would be of an entirely different entity; if thanks should be given it should return to Morwen. Viratas and I still have much to work out."