A Thief in the Night (Ssanya, Belugnir, Lee)

[Shiress]

Relief washed over the Slave at the sight of the old healer pushing her way through the gathered onlookers, her old, keen eyes taking in the wounded man and his mundane rescuers with one hard, scrutinizing glance. Not a marked healer, Shiress realized, watching the senior woman set about organizing her supplies. Though she had hoped for a marked healer, the bright aura of confidence radiating off the healer gave credence to her ability, and that was good enough for Shiress.

A shudder of sympathy passed through the Slave when the woman produced a dagger. An involuntary hand lowered to the large scar on Shiress's thigh, knowing exactly what the healer intended -the Slave knew all too well the pain of cauterizing a wound. But on the neck? The healer caught the girl's look and read it with ease. Motioning back over her shoulder, two big men stepped forward, apparently the woman's sons as they mirrored the same features and hair color of their aging mother.

"Eli, you hold his head," she ordered, jabbing a gnarled and crooked finger at the closest son, "There, Jacob, you grab his shoulders."

The two men took to their tasks without a word, obviously used to aiding their mother in her trade, but Shiress probably wouldn't have heard, anyway, so enthralled was she at the new state of the dagger, it's blade suddenly hot and glowing a dull, ugly looking red. Magic, Shiress knew, but the sight of wizardry never ceased to amaze her thoroughly.

Taking the proffered knife in adept fingers, the Slave didn't hesitate at her task. Slinging long hair from her eyes, Shiress gave the two men a readying nod then lowered the blade tip into the opening in the stranger's neck, hissing through her teeth as a searing pain burned across her hand. The exchange of her finger for the sweltering blade had not been timed correctly, and Shiress drew back her hand with an angry red welt already forming from the tip of her forefinger to the wrist.

The Slave gently tapped the scorched tip of metal against the bleeding vein once, then twice, until the nauseating stench of burnt flesh and boiled blood reached her nostrils causing her to gag. Pressing her mouth into the crook of her elbow, eyes blinking, the girl focused on keeping the content of her stomach where it belonged a tick, then looked to the healer, both seeking guidance and offering an apology in one glance. The woman let out a sharp snort.

"It never gets easier, my girl, tis' why I gave you the blade instead of doing it myself." The elder leaned over the stranger's wound, giving a low grunt of approval, "That done it, then, the bleeding has been stanched." Giving a nod to the other female, the girl took to cleaning the remainder of the blood away. "Now, do we stitch or burn the surface of the cut?" Shiress looked uncertainly at the healer. Was she truly asking or offering tutelage? Deciding on the latter, Shiress replied instantly "Since the bleeding is controlled and the cut is clean...stitched." The old woman gave no reply, but the needle and thread the woman produced from the depths of her bag let Shiress know that she had answered correctly.

"Old finger's dear." the healer offered by way of explanation, holding out the threaded needle. Shiress took it, drawing in a steadying breath. With one hand the Slave pinched the gaping wound closed as the other pulled the needle through the farthest end of the cut. In, under, up, and over the needle worked until the cut was sealed. Tying off the thread, Shiress nodded for the girl beside her to clean the stitched area. Once that was done, she smoothed salve over the wound and covered it with a white bandage, both readily made available by the elderly healer.

"Good work, my young healer," the woman said, smiling toothlessly at the Slave "you right and properly saved this man's life. Be proud." Bobbing her head, the woman slammed a hand against Shiress's shoulder "The danger is passed, I can see to the rest of him and the others. Wash your hands and be on about your business. No need to dawdle."

Shiress saw the glance the woman gave the brand on her wrist, before shooting another over her shoulder to the guard standing watchfully behind the marked slave. It caused her heart to ache.

Leaning down, she brushed back a tangle a sweat-soaked dark hair from the injured man's face. "Farewell." she whispered, " My prayer to Rak'keli will be one of healing and quick recovery."

Standing, the Slave's eyes lingered on the prone figure a tick before letting Kylar lead her away.

A

Beautiful Boxcode Credit to Firenze!

[Belugnir]

Growl and moan he did through grit teeth, salivating with his jaw cramped in pain, half blind from blood loss. The two lads would hardly have had to do much holding. Hot iron upon skin was a painful ordeal on its own, doubly so when pressed upon a bloody open wound. Yet for all the trashing retaliation that might have crossed Ein's mind as his flesh sizzled and seared under the heated dagger, strength had abandoned his limbs, and he could but whimper in response... and then do the same all over again when the pinching and the needling came in order. Mayhaps it was the pain and powerlessness and mayhaps a forgotten childhood grudge toward having his injuries stitched with thread that made his eyes water up as the slave girl worked. Frankly, Ein became almost annoyed with himself for not passing the petch out with his wit instead somehow lingering for him to experience the wholesome ordeal.

A prayer, as if., the faintest trace of a scolding curve made its way to his lips in response to what the girl whispered to him in his final moment of consciousness.

When next he woke, Ein found himself within a humble bed of hay in an attic all too unfamiliar. He would come to find out that he'd been asleep for only the better part of two days, and that his nigh lethal wound and the burn-marks left in its obligatory treatment were nearly wholly averted. Courtesy it was of a marked healer to whom the old gran and her two sons brought him, though the minor gnash on his chest and the bruises he'd earned in the street skirmish were left to heal naturally... That was the courtesy of the fact that his felled assailant's collective purses couldn't have made up for the magical treatment of any save his most drastic injury. For once it was a stroke of luck that he hadn't brought an excess of his own coin along.

Though healing magic saw him recovered better and sooner than he had the right to be, Ein would still find himself moving all too sluggishly for the next several days as he tried to make hasty arrangements of sorting out the supplies Samara had listed and paid for him to bring back to the outpost. He spared little more than a stingy voicing of gratitude for the healers that saw to him through the near death experience, collected his things from the cheap inn within the city, and in spite of his weighing weakness, began to make way back to the Northern outpost with Anya in tow.

Einar would rather deal with hungry wolves in the night than have to do with any more back alley shivs eager to find the side of his neck.

WC:467