Completed [The Anthonius Fighters Pits] To Another's Detriment

[Isolde Seibold]

The smile and the blood were almost enough to send her scurrying back and away with a hasty apology. Almost.

Razkar seemed intent on talking, for the moment, so that gave the Nuit time to stare at his teeth and wonder how she had missed them before. Gods. He'd-- he'd sharpened them. Everything on him was a weapon, it seemed, something to be remembered and something that was most definitely intimidating. But really, how had she missed those choppers? He'd smiled at her, she could remember, but not like this. Mostly he smiled with his lips closed. This grin was different. It was sharper. Literally.

And to see his wound worsen because of her, because of something she'd done, and purposefully, with the intent to do so. That was more terrible, by far. She had to forcibly drag her eyes away from the wound, resisting the urge to wipe off her knuckles, fighting the grimace that was threatening to break out across her features... and then his words broke off suddenly, she realized that he was going to attack, and focused on the fight instead of her feelings.

Still. It got her thinking. If enemy has weakness, has injury, take advantage. She supposed that worked for more than just weaknesses of the flesh.

"Remember. Always keep eye on enemy blade. But in fight, you not fight blade; you fight man. So that is where you strike-"

He was coming in fast, and his blade was all over the place, and she struggled to respond, she didn't like him being the one directing the--

Fight man. There was more to the man than just the blade--

His fist came rolling in, and she spun away at the last tick, catching the punch in the lower ribs instead of the stomach, staggering away, free left hand automatically going to her side, dagger out and towards him, trying to keep the yelp of pain inside clenched teeth. She made herself keep stumbling back away from him, trying to twist the flash of pain gritting her teeth into a snarl. And then, just to show him that the blow meant nothing --though it meant a lot more than he probably knew-- she straightened, removing her hand from her side, easing back into side-stance. She was intent for the moment to make him chase her around, not letting him close enough to deliver a second blow. This, of course, was to let her recover, and also to give her time to furiously think.

Maybe staying away from him wasn't enough. She couldn't take many punches like that. So maybe she'd have to show him to stay away from her. But that was ludicrous. How to do that? He was so much better than her, more experienced. How could she get him to be weary of coming in close, of making contact--? She didn't know, but thinking it out would take even more time. She couldn't hover around him forever. So Isolde settled on buying herself more time to think by attacking, trying to be offensive in order to not have to try to respond...

And then a certain daring thought clicked into place, and why not try it--?Trying to be offensive. This was sparring, after all, and she was supposed to use every weakness against him... But not if it makes him actually angry at you. She cut off the thought before it could take root and make her think twice.

It seemed in battle that things that didn't make any sense, or that might appear to be counterproductive, were the best things there were to do. Or maybe the Nuit was just a really bad judge of what was what. Regardless... instead of staying away, her short-term plan was to get too close and drive him back. This short-term goal would aid in the long-term of the fight, too, if only she could accomplish it. She knew that he had some sort of... something for her. Hatred, or fear, or discomfort, or disgust, or confliction, or maybe even a little of all of those mixed and swirled together. Wasn't that a weakness of sorts? Something she could play against--? Maybe it would get him to keep away, keep him wary, like a child afraid of the monsters in the dark--

So this time as she came in, she came in too far. Past what she was comfortable with, and that meant probably what he was. She just hoped he wouldn't react in a lethal way. She waited for the initial slash of his kukri and bludgeoned that to the side with her forearm, perhaps knocking it away too hard as a point. And then she kept coming, straight for him, getting as close to him as possible without running full into him, and relying on him to flinch back away from surprise at her closeness. This wouldn't work if he saw her hesitate. It wouldn't work if he saw her fear. And it wouldn't work if he was unimpressed. But. It just might work if he really did hold some... fear of her, down deep in his heart. And it just might work if he had never dealt much with anything like her before.

Close now, the Nuit shot out her dagger at his chest as she came, hoping to stab at him to keep him going back, the same way he so easily corralled her. She tried not to let him get his defenses back up (if he had ever dropped them), and fueled his (hopefully present) fear of proximity to her by reaching out to try and latch her left hand against his right arm, anywhere she could find a proper grip. She'd hold on for a moment, letting the cold of her flesh send a ripple of goosebumps up his arm, and then release and dance away to avoid any attacks that might come--

But not back. Not back. This was her ground, for now. So instead, she swept to the side, keeping close, forcing him to turn, trying to be in control of his motion as he had been of hers--

Lashing out with her dagger again, a slash at his chest, before smacking her left hand at the side of his head, palming his neck and ear, again that cool, unwanted touch--

She would do this for as long as she could before it got too dangerous to stay, or until he gave in and backed away. She wanted him to give ground. To show him. Show him not to hurt her lightly. Not to cross her. Show him that she, just a little Nuit, could intimidate in her own way...

Mind games. You're playing mind games. The thought was disgusted, and so she showed that contempt on her face, and he wouldn't know that it wasn't for him--

Yeah, well he said to take advantage of any weakness. And his body is certainly not what's weak.

OOCHEY, if you want me to change this post (think it's too high above my level or something) just tell me and I'll change it! Hopefully the Myrian won't take it the wrong way and rip her head off or something.

[Razkar]

Razkar's lips curled in grim satisfaction as his blow connected, Nuit's face contorting with pain as he hand slapped to her side... and then he straightened, forcing the pain back or out or down or just away.

"Good." He said quietly, not taking his eyes off her. "Use pain, but not often show it. Maybe show to bit enemy. Make them think you are wounded, easy to kill. But best to show no weakness. No pain..."

Isolde seemed to take his words to heart, but he was forming her own tactics, too, and he was grudgingly impressed. He felt a slight rasp in his throat when he breathed, far from panting but already he could feel the tightness in his muscles, the heralds of distant exhaustion. The Myrian knew his stamina and endurance were impressive (from experience, not arrogance), but the Nuit opposite him...

No sweat. No heavy breathing. No tremble... and no rush.

She's wearing you down. Avoiding you. Making you chase her.

He was proved right over the next few chimes. He drove her on and on, but she went back and back, drawing him away, avoiding and sapping him blow by wasted blow. Finally they faced off and he grinned wolfishly, nodding and dripping sweat.

"You learn good, girl. Make enemy move and waste strength. Move and move but not hit, waste energy. Wait long enough, be patient... then strike. Enemy too weak to defend-"

But then, she learned another important lesson: change tactics. Keep your enemy guessing.

Isolde swept up close to him, driving her dagger towards him only for his kukri to knock it away-

-but her arm lashed out, gripping around his forearm-

-eyes staring at him, deep, dark, alive but not, staring from centuries in the past through eyes so young, so... cold... he felt cold.

A shiver shook his body and he struck out with a sharp left at her ribs, knuckles aiming for her kidneys-

-but glancing her ribs instead, not nearly as satisfying as she slid to his side-

-still so close, close enough for her to feel the utter lack of warmth not coming off her body-

-icy hand clutching the side of his head, her dagger cocked back, ready for another-

Razkar's hand snapped up to grasp around her hand, and eyes like stone locked onto hers-

-kukri jerking up and forward to knock away her dagger-

Then he spoke.

The words were devoid, now. Not of emotion, or pity, or warmth, or hatred. Just in general. Voices like that had been heard before: mainly around tombstones and white lights at the ends of tunnels.

"Don't push it."

And bent back her two smallest fingers until he heard twin snaps.

Isolde screeched and reeled away from the Myrian, clutching her ruined hand and the fingers bent at unnatural, gruesome angles. Razkar blinked calmly and assessed the damage he'd inflicted.

Dislocation, not fracture. Easily repaired, but painful. Good.

"Can fix fingers when we are done." His voice was unreal, so calm and composed, a chilling counterpoint to her own terrified, agonized features. He hefted his kukri up again, waiting for her to look at him. "But after we finish lesson. Pain? You get hurt in fight. You get bruised, and bleed, or-" he nodded to her hand "-petch up hand. Move on. Push pain away."

Razkar took his stance and waited.

"Adapt or die. Now get you revenge."

OOCYeah, you kind of did, so... well, at least I didn't rip your head off!

[Isolde Seibold]

OOCI'll take snapped fingers over a head-kabob any day.

The Nuit knew she'd really miscalculated when the Myrian grabbed her hand. Had she had a heartbeat, it would have thudded straight into oblivion. She was suddenly so afraid staring into those stony, black eyes that her mouth tingled, and she desperately tried to quell the abrupt shaking in her limbs, thinking of the dagger in her hand--

Gods, he'd knocked that away, hadn't he? She wasn't able to tell if her fingers were still grasping around it, or if she'd let it go. Somehow that didn't matter. Her fear was something real that felt about as likely to kill her as the Myrian in front of her. And somehow... it was mocking, too. The little voice in the back of her mind was screaming out in malicious glee at her mistake: I told you so, I told you!

"Don't push it."

Her fingers snapped back, and Isolde let out a shriek. But... that was it. Razkar let her go, a mercy in itself, and she scrambled away, trying not to scream again when she saw the state of her hand, and she was as angry as she was in pain and frightened. Because as much as this was her body, this was most definitely not her body. She hated herself for letting this happen; no, for making this happen. All of it. Her own survival was of the utmost importance to her... and it was some poor girl's dead body that paid for it all, wasn't it? Gods, Isolde was such a loser. The bruises were bad enough. But this was just about too much.

The Nuit didn't look up for a long time, cradling her hand to her stomach, shoulders hunched in, trying not to let her face be so screwed up in agony and disgust. The anger was at herself, not at the Myrian. She shouldn't have done that. She shouldn't have tried to-- to-- to make him afraid. What kind of sick monster did that to someone else? Gods, and look what had happened because of it. Look what she'd done. It fucking hurt. She tried to wiggle those fingers, and got nothing but more pain, and though she hated the sound a whimper managed to slip through, followed by a lot of panted breathing, quick and harsh.

Finally she was able to bring her face up to look at her teacher. Probably he would take the sorrow there as self-pity, instead of the apology it was intended to be. Probably she deserved for his opinion of her to slink even lower than it had been before. At least his beginning words were a reason for hope. Can fix fingers when we are done. Did that mean that they weren't broken? She tried to move them again and lowered her head so that he couldn't see the nasty pain that rippled once more across her features.

"Adapt or die. Now get you revenge."

Revenge? Gods, didn't he see she didn't want revenge? But she moved mechanically to get back into place, finding the dagger that she'd dropped at some point in time and scooping it up, keeping her left hand cuddled close to her chest all the while. She was still shaking, but she fixed him with as level a gaze as she could manage.

The pain was such a distraction. Would she even be able to use her left arm? Yes... but only, only for blocks, only the forearm. She couldn't imagine the pain if he managed to grab her hand and twist, or provide some other hellish torment by attacking it-- no. She wouldn't-- wouldn't let him. She would-- she would--

Maybe show to bit enemy. Make them think you are wounded, easy to kill.

Yes. Maybe that. Get him to engage her, hopefully not get too beat up in the process, and then back to the dodge-in-and-out, making him chase her like before. He had been hurt himself, thanks to 'Eranis'. He had to be-- be tired. He wasn't at top shape. She tried not to let herself hope that her exercise had actually worked, and that he wouldn't want to be close to her. No, best forget about that ungodly plan. She could-- could try to figure out a way to say she was sorry later. She would not allow herself to think that she had gained some minor victory out of her-- inhumanity. The only victory she had gained was that he had stopped with her fingers.

When she spoke, she let her words color with her usual hesitance, hoping to get him to come at her in a rage. It was a way to get back into the feel of the fight, and this time she would be expecting it (if it came), which would give her some sort of control, however minor, perhaps an edge. And, the little voice was whispering, And you deserve to feel his anger, don't you? She tried not to grit her teeth so hard that she couldn't speak, and her voice came out very small and pathetic. "I-- I c-can't. Y-You-- I-- I won't--" It had been that little word last time to send him over, and if he thought she'd reverted, had lost the hard-fought for knowledge of his lessons... perhaps it would be enough to bait him this time. She prepared for some sort of attack, and tried to look inconspicuous as she reached her left hand --ouch, ouch, OUCH, petch-- into her left pocket.

When he came thundering over, if he came, she'd whip out her left hand as if to throw flour in his face again, without actually doing so. He'd be expecting the move. She'd already told him she had the flour with her, and that was what she'd done last time she'd felt threatened by him. He'd flinch away, probably to his right to avoid the cloud--

So she'd go that way, slashing out with a flick of her dagger to try to catch him in the chest, hopefully aggravating one of his cuts, perhaps blocking his responding attack with her left forearm, if she could manage--

Then she'd have to weave her way around him as best she could, trying to weather whatever beating he had in mind--

Before kicking out at the side of his knee or his balls when she found the chance, something to help her get some room between them once more, and then she'd lead him into that chasing game again, trying to outlast him--

Hopefully she could do all that. The finger was a major distraction. And it was more than just the pain. Razkar's simple, agonizing response had had the effect of bringing about the usual self-loathing when something like this happened. And when that came into play, it sapped her strength and will like nothing else. She wasn't sure she could hide her exhaustion, her sudden weariness. Or the jaded, glassy look that had come into her eyes.

And what would she do if he didn't get whipped into a frenzy at her refusal--?
Well, he'd come to her one way or another. Her plan would remain the same. If she refused to go to him, he'd have to come to her. Either that, or just stand there. And somehow she doubted he'd do that...

[Razkar]

He waited, and he watched, and he hoped he hadn't gone too far. He remembered his own reaction to the sight of his own fingers mangled like that, when he was but a boy: he'd thrown up over his sandals. Now he just blinked stoically, trying to ease his breathing... waiting...

And smiling when the female settled into a crouch, dagger held in her undamaged hand, other hand snaking round to her side.

"Good girl." He said quietly, hefting his kukri in readiness, flexing the muscles in his legs. "What they say in my people. Victory need sacrifice. And pain. From winner and loser."

Razkar swept forward and bought up his kukri, coming fast to her left-

-just as her left hand snapped out of her pocket, rushing towards him and opening-

Not this time!

-Razkar closed his eyes, turned away and slid to his left, away from the cloud of... nothing?

There was no dry rain of flour. No softly stinging fog of powder that clung to his sweat-lathered form. Nothing but air and-

-trickery.

Razkar's eyes snapped open just to see the flash of metal arc sideways in front of him and-

-he yelped out in pain, shallow cut slashed open on his chest before he could sway backwards, Isolde pressing her advantage, coming close, fooling him brilliantly with her empty hand and her wound-

Clever little demon.

She lashed out with her leg but he saw her hips roll, knew what was coming, gnosis granting the sight and speed he needed - just enough - to twist his right arm down and block the blow with his right forearm-

-before twisting his body round to the right, left arm lashing out as well-

-targeting her shin-

-sweeping her remaining leg out from under her and putting her on her back. The Nuit grunted as the sand and stone slammed into her spine, sending shivers and needles biting into it, vkision blackening for a moment-

-and when it cleared, a panting, sweating and wild-eyed Myrian was crouching over her, one knee on her dagger arm, the other holding a kukri to her throat...

Long, pregnant ticks. Filled only with heavy breathing and furious glares... before Razkar finally smiled... but only with his eyes.

"You pay." He said finally, removing his knee and blade. "Then I fix fingers..."

[Isolde Seibold]

It always ended so suddenly. That was what surprised her. When Razkar just ended it. She should have known better than try to mess with him, before. She should have remembered how quickly he could move when he wanted to, how decisively he could act.

She'd actually managed to cut him. And then a tick later --maybe less, it felt like less-- she was flat on her back and staring up into his face, pinned down, having had the world whirl around and her back smash into the ground.

She waited, tiredly. Her hand hurt. Her back was complaining. Her ribs too, a little. She wanted to get away from him, he was too close, she didn't like him this close. How was that for turned tables? The Myrian glared down at her, and she summoned up all the venom she could to beam up in response, mind exhausted and a bit shocked at the abrupt change, and her hand really was hurting. She was almost certain he wasn't going to press that kukri further into her throat. 90 percent sure... okay, 80 percent-- 70? 60--

Maybe she wasn't so certain. She felt her toes curl in her boots, but she simply stayed where she was, trying to bide it out. This glare-off must not be taking as long as it felt. Ticks, maybe. Three long ticks, she would guess, but it felt like forever. And then--

His eyes creased. A smile, but without those terrifying filed teeth, and the relief rolled over her. "You pay. Then I fix fingers..."

The Nuit hauled herself up, transferring the dagger from her right to her left hand with a wince, trying not to look at the painfully disjointed fingers there, reaching back with her right to try to brush the sand from her clothes. More than that, she was collecting herself, trying not to let the Myrian see how he had rattled her. Her hand went unconsciously to her throat as she gazed around, mind too tired to recall immediately where she'd put her things...

Oh yeah. Up there. In the stands. She didn't want to have to try to climb up with only one hand. But she wasn't going to bother Razkar about it. So she just grimaced, awkwardly clambering up and over, holding her left arm cautiously to her chest all the while, trying not to jostle the burning fingers lest they explode into agony once more. Isolde scooped up her knapsack, flinging it over one shoulder, before carefully descending back into the Pit. At least the movement gave her something to think about besides herself. She didn't want to think about herself. Thinking about herself made it so that she wanted to just lie down and give up. She'd originally thought about coming to get dagger lessons for the sake of easing her fear. Perhaps she'd accomplished that, in a way. She was still afraid of everyone, but maybe just a tiny bit less afraid and a tiny bit more capable of handling herself. Thanks to Razkar, to Fallon. But if it turned out that these lessons made living with herself even more unbearable...

She didn't know. She didn't want to think about it right now. She could think about it later. Later.

The Nuit came back to the moment, settling herself on a bench to the side of the Pit, rummaging through her bag with her right hand, down to the bottom, and again there came that strange clunking noise of pottery being upset. She snatched up coins by the handful, counting out ten golden ones, then hesitating.

Her right hand was clenched around the Mizas. Isolde stared at it, and then she turned her eyes to the ugly, mangled fingers twinging on her left. Without really looking up to see where Razkar was, she asked listlessly, "10 GM? Unless you want more than that, for-- for--" The weariness was clear in her voice, making her words a bit flat. She struggled to liven her tone, to cling to the mask she put on for the Myrian when she was around him. "For w-what I did." Still staring down, gods she didn't know what to do with herself. Then, in a voice quietly pained, "I'm really s-sorry~ I didn't~" She swallowed hard, just shaking her head. What could she say to him? That she hadn't been thinking? She had been thinking, she had acted by design. That what she had done had happened in the moment? Like that was an excuse. That she couldn't help being what she was? She tried not to be what she was all the time. It got her nowhere. She couldn't run from the fact that inherently she was evil. No matter how much she wanted to.

After a chime, she straightened up a little, trying to manage her expression and mold it into something more businesslike. Razkar didn't need to see this. He didn't want to. This was something she had to deal with. It wasn't for him-- It shouldn't touch him. "I'm just really sorry," Isolde tried again, glancing over at his black eyes before looking back down. "So really. W-What do you want, to make up for it?"

[Razkar]

Razkar couldn't help but wince at how watched the girl swing and grope above the rim of the Pit one handed, coming back down heavily with her backpack.

"10 GM? Unless you want more than that, for-- for--"

The stammer. It came back choked with fear and... guilt? Exhaustion? The Myrian looked up with a frown, attention shifting from the gash on his chest to her.

"For w-what I did. I'm really s-sorry~ I didn't~"

Razkar watched with his jaw tightened as the words didn't so much as pour as stutter, dribble, soaked with self-loathing and remorse that he couldn't even fathom. Her eyes wandered all over the pit, but never alighted on him. She seemed to be cracking into chunks in front of him, like... like...

Like a corpse.

"I'm just really sorry. So really. W-What do you want, to make up for it?"

Razkar's expression did not waver, but even the Nuit could see him body almost... lean towards her, without moving. He seemed to strain like a dog on a leash, but held himself back by an effort of will. The Myrian wanted his eyes to soften, to shake his head and tell her she was insane for apologizing. Sparring was often dangerous, and his... Taloba-style of training was doubly so.

But he did not. Razkar blinked, twice, and he provided as much warmth to her turmoil as an iceberg. Because he was afraid, and not of her. He had faced many adversaries in his life, human and Dhani, Yukmen and Zith, tigers and lions... but all of them had had seen coming. Some of them were evil beyond words, but he knew they were. It was obvious from how they approached, how they met, how they fought... and died.

But Razkar knew there were evils in this world that came with smiles at best and in the most touching vulnerability at worst. Corruption and evil that made you believe so much that they were innocent; that hid in love and compassion. He had heard-tell of monsters and deviants that would worm their ways into a man's heart, convince them of their tragedy... and then destroy them.

What frightened Razkar was that he knew he would fall for it; something just like the Nuit in front of him, struggling not to burst into tears...

Razkar sighed and pried her fingers open, pocketing the ten mizas without a word. She watched him carefully scrutinize her mangled fingers, both of them flopping around grotesquely... winced and moaned when his callused hands pressed and felt around them.

Not bad. Dislocated, as I assumed, not broken. Easily reset, but...

"You should not feel too bad," he said in a murmur, more focused on his work than in speech, "You did good today. Managed to put mark on me. And now you come to tears and say you are so sorry. Not be sorry. Do what have to do. Very smart trick, with no-flour. But, if want to make good-" he braced his fingers lightly, looking up at her "-how about you fuck me in pit?"

It took only a tick; perhaps even less. He watched carefully as her eyes widened in utter shock, sunken eyes panicking, mouth opening and skin growing more impossibly pale as her tongue moved-

-then he snapped her fingers back into their sockets and she screamed again.

"Sorry. Had to distract..."

Training Fee10GM

[Isolde Seibold]

Receipt-10 GM

She was trying not to hope for forgiveness. That was too much to ask for something like what she'd done. How she had acted. Inexcusable. So really, she told herself that she had expected the bitter coldness in his black eyes as she peeked over at him. She told herself to embrace it, to accept it, because that was really all that could be expected from any sane person when dealing with someone like her.

Still, his icy rejection managed to hurt. She didn't know why. It was stupid. She shouldn't care about it so much, she barely even knew Razkar and she shouldn't expect him to act differently towards her than any of the nameless citizens on the streets of Syliras that she passed by every day. Perhaps he should treat her worse, even. She'd never really been good around him. She'd yelled at him last time and thrown flour in his face. This time she'd questioned his teachings because of what she'd learned with Fallon, and then she'd pulled that fucking stunt, made him hurt her, did this to her fingers, and she'd taken yet another in a long line of blows to her self-image. So really, his reaction was welcome, yeah, of course, welcome, that glittering coolness in his eyes that made her chest hurt. But that wasn't anything. That was just the ribs. Just the ribs.

She found herself staring morbidly at the grizzly, flopping fingers on her left hand. The unnatural flopping fingers, more like; there was not even any swelling, no warmth there from the pain of her injury, just cool and unaffected flesh, even when he started poking and prodding, making her wince. She tried very hard, unsuccessfully, to stop the low noises of discomfort at the Myrian's clinical touch.

When he started speaking, Isolde simply bobbled her head in silent acknowledgement of what he was saying, and tried to strangle the comfort that swelled inside her at the words. No. That wasn't for her. No. He was just pointing out what he saw as facts, that was it. Nothing more. He wasn't trying to be reassuring. He was trying to-- to, uh--

"But, if want to make good-"

That was what he was trying to do. Name his price. She allowed herself to look over at him, and he glanced up at her, right before he said--

"-how about you fuck me in pit?"

Isolde's eyes snapped open wide and she stared at him, flabbergasted, gaping. She couldn't tell what her expression was saying. She hoped he wouldn't be offended if he saw the horror dawning there, hand-in-hand with the petrified shock and the pinned-in-place panic, right before her brain kicked into gear and she started thinking that this was obviously some malicious game he was playing. Actually that made sense. That would be a more apt response to her transgressions, yes, some horrible game to get back, let's see how much we can scare the Nuit--

Then his hand jerked and there were two snaps, so close together they were almost one. And then lightning roared into life at her knuckles, screaming down her hand and sizzling along her nerves, dancing in her fingertips, shooting up her arm quick as anything all the way up to the elbow, and she realized that it wasn't just her hand that screamed... She was letting out a scream, too, in acute, startled pain. The Nuit cut it off with a gasp, suddenly clutching her left hand in her right, doubling over her lap with both hands tucked under her chin, trying to stop the sob that she could feel ready to hiccup free. "Sh-Shyke, shyke, shyke it all--" she hissed, surprised at the simultaneously watery and vehement quality to the curse. Razkar had said something, she thought she heard the word 'distract'... she just unlatched her throbbing left hand and waved it at him, trying to convey the thought, No prob, Bob, with the gesture. It probably didn't come off as flippantly as she intended since she had her right hand pressed firmly to her face, especially to her eyes, and thank the gods for hoods. The Myrian probably couldn't see her face, bent forward as she was, huddled in on herself. Good. That was good. He was probably tired of her sniveling, anyways.

When Isolde thought her voice wouldn't betray her she said, "Thanks. For-- that--" She had to stop and take a deep breath; it shuddered on the way in. Not good enough; not convincing at all. Carefully, the Nuit looked over at her teacher-turned-medic, straightening up, quivering only a little. She tried to smile. The expression wobbled on her face. She valiantly kept it glued in place. "So I g-guess I'll-- just-- go now. So-- y-yeah, thanks again, and I-I'm s-s-sorry again~" Shit, she was not going to cry. She rolled the fingers on her left hand, testing them, pretending she was weepy from the pain. Gods, she was such a fucking wimp. "D-Don't worry about it," she sniffled out, "It's j-just the fingers. G-Gods, damn it." She scrubbed at her eyes with her right hand, which was not on fire, and picked up
--and nearly dropped-- her knapsack with her left hand, which was on fire. Then made sure the dagger was tied to her belt. That was everything. "So y-yeah, I'm f-fine, really. G-Good as new. C-Catch you some other t-time." She stood to go. She really had to go. She couldn't stay any longer. She was going to lose it. She was already making a fool of herself.

[Razkar]

Goddess, throw the girl a bone!

The thought came stabbing into his mind unbidden and sharp enough to make him wince... but he didn't ignore it. As the Nuit turned, the Myrian's hand jerked out and wrapped around her wrist. Her exit was barred by a sudden vice-like grip and she turned, wide-eyed and on the verge of tears...

Razkar smiled down at her. Mouth closed, eyes still... guarded, but perhaps not so heavily.

"You want to make better? Want to pay back for debt you think you have?" An edge of humor crept into his voice that took her by surprise. "Fine." Razkar gestured down to the bleeding cuts on his chests, shoulders, his arms, most of them from his bout with Eranis. "You can heal. Can treat my wound. Do that, and I accept you apology."

Isolde's mouth opened, face already falling, argument and excuses massing on her blackened tongue-

-and Razkar stepped forward, towering over the big, sheer physicality cutting her off.

"You say have debt. Debt to me." Still his voice was low, almost coaxing, but there was an implacability behind it that she knew from the way he thought. The Myrian had decided something: that was that. "So I decide how you make debt full. This is way."

Nothing more was to be said and he stepped around her, wincing as he climbed up from the pit, wounds squeezed and opened even more by the exertion. When his feet slapped down onto the boards, the patter of falling blood followed it.

"Quite a session we had, hmm?"

Razkar gritted his teeth and saw the slightly-smiling Akalak admiring his work. He took his seat by his rucksack and started rifling through it.

"One day, I do the same."

"Far in the future, my friend."

"I have time."

"Not as much as me, I guarantee."

Razkar was formulating a scathing reply (well, something close to it, anyway... or a shadow of it), when the Nuit joined them, looking as lost and scared as before. He favored her with another lopsided smile and pulled out his healing kit.

"Always take this when I come fight. Especially with this barbarian-" he gestured to the Akalak and got an amused snort in response "-so you have tool to heal. So... will you?"

He extended his hand, all she would need to at least wash and bandage his wounds within it, and waited.

[Isolde Seibold]

She had turned. She was going to leave this place as quickly as she could without looking like she was running, and then she really was going to start running, because she just needed to be gone for a while. Away from everybody else. Maybe she could go to that place that passed, these days, for home (though her real home had died with her family so long ago)-- maybe the Temple-- maybe somewhere else. Anywhere, really, that she'd be able to just be alone, though she had been alone for so long that she'd recently starting wondering, secretly, if more of the same would be good for her. It had been so easy, before, that nothingness, floating along in a wash of memories, not having to do anything but watch and see what she had already seen so many times before. Now when she was alone, it was just her and her thoughts, and they tended to drive themselves towards the dark in a way that was fast becoming routine.

Then a hand snatched her wrist, she forced herself to turn back, eyes wide, feeling very close to just falling apart-- and then, for the time being, at least, she wasn't going to be leaving. Razkar cut too imposing of a figure to argue with, even though she ached to say that she really wasn't the best at this sort of thing, that he wanted someone with hands that wouldn't shake just because she was close to him, and someone who hadn't last dealt with living injuries decades ago--

What about the men at the Spinning Coin? The ones you left because you were too much of a coward to stay? The thought whispered out from one of those dark places in her mind, and she took a couple deep breaths, willing it away.

Perhaps it was better if she wasn't alone. As long as she could recover herself--

She tilted her head up, still taking steadying breaths, then mutely followed after her new 'patient'. Soon enough she was jarred from her gathering depression by two sights: one, of that Eranis man smiling over at Razkar, and some fear came skittering back into her, she'd forgotten about him, now she had to decide whether or not she would have to be worried about him; and two, of Razkar himself, dripping blood onto the stands. That sparked an entirely different sort of worry, the more selfless kind that she found she much preferred.

Okay. So maybe her teacher really did need someone to help him. But she was still uncertain whether or not she would be the best one for the job. Honestly, she had been taught so very little about these sorts of things, and really it had been Vaughn who had dealt with all of it, back when they had been alive and together.

Still... if this was what he wanted...

By the time the Nuit reached the other two, she'd composed herself. Now, instead of sorrowful and dully exhausted, her eyes had reclaimed their usual hesitance... bordering on fear when she stepped up closer to the pair. But when Razkar held out the healing kit, the Nuit didn't much pause before taking it in her hands, opening it, quickly rifling through, seeing what she had to work with. As she did, her hands slowly strengthened, going from a shake to a gentle tremor, and then the jitters vanished completely. The Myrian had done perhaps the best thing he could've done to snap Isolde out of her funk. He'd given her something to do. Something constructive was even better.

"Always take this when I come fight. Especially with this barbarian, so you have tool to heal. So... will you?"

"A-Alright." She winced at the stutter, gods, she'd really let that slip back in, hadn't she? Isolde cleared her throat and tried again. "I mean. Of course I will." There. That was better, she thought. The Nuit threw a wary glance at Eranis, who seemed to be in a good mood, so maybe he'd be less inclined to kill her... and then she turned her eyes to the Myrian's wounds, quickly scrutinizing which were highest priority. There was quite a number of them, most small scratches that could be cleaned, dabbed with one of the ointments or salves she'd found, and called good to go. Wouldn't even require real bandaging. She didn't think any were deep enough for stitching --thank the gods, she didn't like poking needle through flesh-- though that one on the shoulder was pretty nasty looking. Perhaps she should start there.

The Nuit approached Razkar's right side, going a bit behind him and standing close for better access. Blue eyes focusing on the puckered and bleeding gash, frowning, hands now completely steady as she dug through the kit, going for a tin of water she'd seen and some cloth that could be used for cleaning. Well... first she'd need to stop the bleeding, so she folded the cloth and used it as a compress, applying pressure against the wound. And then, after only about a moment of holding it there... "Actually, you hold this. Keep it in place. Press hard. I'm betting you know how." She looked up at the person she'd been directing her simple orders to... and, perhaps surprisingly for her company, it had not been the Myrian. Not that she had really wanted to enlist the help of the giant Eranis... but she only had two hands, and she couldn't have Razkar reaching across his chest, blocking her access to his other wounds, to hold the pad in place. His shoulder wound was one of the bigger ones, and she'd worsened it when she'd punched him, and he'd strained it every time he swung his right arm, so it was likely to take a few chimes of pressure to get it to stop leaking all over the place. In the meantime, with her hands free she could work on other cuts and scrapes... the ones on his chest.

She glanced sharply over at the purple man, waiting to see if he'd follow her commands. "You did this, might as well help... and you make sure to hold still." That one was to Razkar, and as she waited for his friend to either decline or to get his ass over, she was already picking out the next wound to target, which she'd have to be on Razkar's other side to reach... Her free hand was grabbing up the medical kit, ready to be carried over.

Inspecting the Myrian so, it was hard not to get distracted by all the other scars, layers of them, thick and thin in a whole manner of shapes, the mural on his flesh a gruesome reminder of past battles fought. "G-Gods, what have you gotten yourself into?" The words fell from her lips unbidden, her tone aghast and wondering. Not really expecting the Myrian to reply, instead she quirked her head over towards his purple friend, and asked, "How many of these scars are from him?"

OOCOne Nuit, successfully distracted... and bossy when you put a medkit in her hands! You just better fucking hold still. >.>

[Razkar]

Razkar suffered he ministrations with cold and determined silence. The only hint he even felt her hold hands and the colder water she washed his wounds with was the tightening of his jaw and the occasional muted hiss from between curled back lips. Especially when she got to his shoulder and the worn, ragged wound began to seep between her fingers.

But truly? Razkar was quietly amazed at the transformation that Isolde had undergone. In a mere chime, it seemed, she'd gone from a stammering, borderline-traumatized girl to a confident and in-control female who was even snapping off orders at an Akalak three times her size.

"You did this, might as well help... and you make sure to hold still."

The Myrian couldn't help the smile that quirked his lips for a moment, eyes glittering with brief amusement as he girded himself for the pain and watched a suddenly-placid Eranis following her orders.

"Yes, mistresssssss-"

Ah, that was a ripe one, for sure. His shoulder screamed and bit at his nervous system, spasms of aching, numbing pain rippling up and down his side, and the last word came out as a hiss. But Razkar kept his focus forward, eyes slightly glazed, his mind somewhere else, escaping the prison of the flesh while it was under siege...

"G-Gods, what have you gotten yourself into? How many of these scars are from him?"

Razkar cocked an eyebrow and the jungles of home, vast and painless, were replaced in a blink by her frowning face. He blinked again. Was she... yes... she was almost indignant at the wounds on his flesh. The smile returned and stayed a few more ticks, shrugging his shoulders (or at least one of them).

"A few. Not many. Some are old." He snorted, rolling his eyes, the most emotion than she'd seen from him since they'd sat down. "But I think 'old' means different thing for someone... like you."

Razkar loaded the expression carefully and flickered a glance at Eranis, but he saw no revulsion clouding those purple, scholarly features. He was sure that Eranis found it difficult to be bigoted or discriminatory; it was too base and irrational for him, not nearly intellectual enough. Even now he could see those sharp eyes perusing the female's body like she was an experiment to be run, cataloged and then re-examined.

He flexed his sore muscles and found that much of the pain had... well, not fled, but certainly dulled. Far from an experienced healer, but certainly a talented novice. Razkar winced again as he felt the icy cloth pressed to his side, cleaning away dried or flowing blood, then the soft bandage that covered it...

"I will look like one of those bandage males in desert. What... What are they-"

"Mummies."

"My thanks, Eranis." Razkar's eyes glittered again, mirth and humor dancing implausibly in eyes that had grown not numb to slaughter, but addicted to it. He turned them on Isolde and smiled. "Mummies. Hear stories when I was boy, dead men that walked. Maybe... cousins of you?"

It should have occurred to him that teasing the woman who was tending your battered body was not a smart thing to do... but then again, Razkar didn't often think too far ahead.