Windows and Warlord Princes


Offline Eremiar

Windows and Warlord Princes
« on: January 22, 2018, 04:06:48 PM »

The hearth witch all but stumbled into the infirmary. Folded in on herself, arms tight across her stomach, fingers tight across her arms. Thrust through the doorway and followed in by the glowering shadow. The telltale rasp of his wings against the floor as much warning as the metallic stink of his caste and the deep ripple of his Jewel as he sent probes in ahead of the quivering little witch.

"Lady Cyprian..." The girl hissed, shrinking into the room. "It was nothing... but..." Twitching fingers exposed the beginnings of a bruise. A faint pinch mark, as many wore courtesy of Mornivar. "He threw Mornivar out a window." As if the towering beast behind her was incapable of hearing or understanding that he was being whispered about. Right in front of his person.

The witch was rather unceremoniously shoved at a bed, a snort flaring Eremiar's nostrils. He sat too. Poised on the edge of a crisply made bed, a long thin slash running from one shoulder down the front of his torso. Bare because he never wore shirts. Too unused to the feel of fabric on skin after years without. Annoyed at trying to find any that fit his body or around his wings.

Easier this way too.

Not even worried enough to shield when the warlord had lashed out. Puny body sailing out the window and into the open sky. He'd live. The warlord too, this time, wings enough to catch him before he plummeted to his death. flicking his wings out behind him, they draped over the bed, and off the other side. Calloused, knobby fingers gestured at the hearth witch, expression somehow bland and annoyed. Suspicious but not overly concerned.

He didn't have time for all this nonsense. He had Erylian to attend to. But he couldn't do that bleeding. She wouldn't like it. And probably ask questions he didn't care to answer.

Offline Cyprian

Re: Windows and Warlord Princes
« Reply #1 on: January 22, 2018, 11:10:29 PM »
In a tall, neat script Cyprian penned instructions on a dense paper card. She had nearly finished when her wings rustled nervously, eyes widening as they swung towards the infirmary door. A frighteningly familiar scent loomed nearer. Stiffening she waited. Hoping he would move passed quickly.

With a clatter she dropped the pen and wrung her hands together. Oh, oh, oh. Weight shifting back and forth she shielded herself as his probes flooded the room. The hearth witch that popped through the door was unexpected. Face as red as the devil’s jewel the healer tucked her body behind the counter.

Eyes flickering as the swept the witch. What was wrong with her? Nothing! Nothing at all. Why did they want to bother her? Fretting in earnest as the giant shadow dragged in behind the witchling Cyprian turned her attention to the floor. Listening without looking.

She didn’t like the look of the warlord prince. Ilithian’s newest house guest. Or, rather, she didn’t mind his looks. Feeding and grooming and bit of healing would set him right. The problem was really that she found him terrifyingly interesting. A medical puzzle, and he reminded her of the men she had healed on the fields of war.

Too bad he was a monster. Tossing men out of windows! Darkness preserve them. ”He’s wings though.” She said blandly, without looking up. Was that why they were here? To send her out to heal a mountain crushed male? There was no answer, which she expected from the brute but the witchling had a voice. A glance showed the beginnings of a bruise. Cyprian had two of the same on the fleshy underside of her arm. ”Just a bruise.”

That gash was more concerning. A reason to poke at this Earmar- Eremerar? The new one. The Red jeweled one. Whoever he was. Bleeding on her freshly made bed. She would have to touch him though. Damn it all to Hell.

Shuffling along the row of cabinets as if they would protect her Cyprian opened the one farthest from her starting point. Back turned to the intruders she sighed. Then sobbed once, the tears heavy in her eyes but not quite spilling passed the lashes. A jar of white ointment that smelled of citrus was removed from the top shelf. The healer stretched and hopped on one foot, wings splaying for balance to reach it. Using Craft for such a menial task never even crossing her mind. Too adapted to using it only for healing and basic comfort.

”Here. For numbing and fading it. Gone by tomorrow.” Cyprian mumbled as she set the jar beside the hearth witch. It was a highly requested combination, Mornivar really got around. She shivered, stomach twisting at the thought. Filthy man. Didn’t she know it. Blushing at her own silent shame she turned slowly to the man.

Skin taut over bone. Muscle just starting to reform now that he was fed regularly and without cruel rationing. ”You?” She asked permission before approaching. Half hoping he would be satisfied that the hearth witch was fine. Leave her in peace. Shifting from one foot to another Cyprian ground her molars together. She might get away with a decent look at his wings while she healed the cut. A web would see it done right, healing craft was faster but would leave a scar- another. They matched in that way, she noticed. His arms and wings as speckled as her own.

Where his claw marks too? If they were, how had they happened? He was no healer pressing painful solutions on dying men. Voice barely above a whisper she stepped closer, "Took long enough- for someone to toss him." Even quiet, submissive, quivering Cyprian had consider it a time or two.

Offline Eremiar

Re: Windows and Warlord Princes
« Reply #2 on: January 24, 2018, 09:03:31 AM »

”Oh.” The hearth witch exhaled before being knocked down onto a cot. It was rather obvious the girl had forgotten the guard had wings to catch himself with. Just as she kept herself from tumbling right over the other side of the bed with her own. She did scoot to it, however, and farther away from her ‘rescuer’.

Who sat as if he neither noticed nor cared that both women in the room were in the grips of some sort of terror, mostly due to his presence. His eyes gleamed, watching them from beneath sparse lashes. Open barriers leaking yellow annoyance and blue smugness. He was very pleased with himself.

Eremiar did not care for pinching. Worse yet to find some puffed up warlord pinching girls as small as his Erylian for no apparent reason. Why the witches were so bothered by it, he couldn’t guess. Another man might have probed for answers, but Ere did not care enough to know, while knowing if he did he was more likely to slither in and break things than find any answers.

Instead he focused his attention on the healer. Back to them. Making a noise like a broken woman. Ere ran a hand across his stomach and chest, smearing blood and loosening the beginnings of scabs as he did so. The blood trickling down his body made his skin twitched. Uncomfortable. The sensation seeped from him. The blood tickled. Which was offensive.

A pot for the hearth witch. Mumbled thanks before the girl fled. Thanks only for the healer. Eremiar’s eyes narrowed, instincts narrowing at the faster patter of feet. Chase the primordial beast whispered. But the healer came closer, drew his attention away from the fleeing prey to quivering one. Bloody hands rested on the edge of the bed. He didn’t have to tilt his head back to meet her eyes.

Which seemed to slide away from his own. Searching his body instead. Looking. A blush on her cheeks. Eremiar’s open barrier turned into a gaping maw. Not closed, but empty. A deep dark hollow of nothingness. He had seen that look before. That red cheeked, squirming interest. He wasn’t wearing his Jewel, but he didn’t need to.

Tilting his head to the side, Eremiar grinned, fierce and feral. Him. Yes. Come closer. Just a hint of welcome to draw her in. Since she wanted to come closer anyway. He should have known there would be no escape from it. Witches were witches were filthy, disgusting things. Cunts, the lot of them. Greedy with their endless, empty need, always wanted filled. Always wanting control.

She only wore a Green. It would he easy to...

Ere snorted. Blinked and looked at the woman behind the words. It didn’t matter, what she said. Eremiar understood it. Them. The words. He was unsure about the rest. Knew what would happen, if she chose that path. Knew what he would do even if the others wouldn’t like it.

Ere shrugged. Barrier becoming less of an abyssal pit and more of an opening into the man behind the useless tongue. Smug annoyance returning. Next time he just might make a window with Mornivar.

Offline Cyprian

Re: Windows and Warlord Princes
« Reply #3 on: January 24, 2018, 11:32:09 AM »
’Lucky’, thought Cyprian as the hearth witch scampered away. Lucky she could flee, leaving the healer all alone to deal with the terror. Luckier still that the warlord prince didn’t give chase. She had seen that before. Men bearing down on frightened women, tearing their wings or limbs off as easily as a child might do a butterfly. Of course her own instincts told her to run too, but that reaction had been trained out. What use was she, after all, if she didn’t stay to heal? It was all she knew and the only thing she was good at. And even then the Craft itself was technically wrong- a twisted combination of self teaching, instinct, and later book learning. Not done neatly or the way others might. At least it worked, which she gathered was the important part.

For once Cyprian wondered where her apprentices were. Always  around except now that she needed one. They wouldn’t come either, she imagined, if she called. Who would with his psychic scent radiating out in warning. It was strange to be alone with someone that didn’t speak. Not that she had ever enjoyed conversation. She liked hearing other people speak, but they always wanted her to talk back. The silence felt uneasy, or maybe it was just the strain of her own fear stinking up the room.

The warlord prince used his odd other means to communicate. Not an unfamiliar method to Cy, who’s own outer barrier was often soft enough for testing. To warn away others. ’let me be or I’ll cry.’ It worked, usually.

His cold, suddenly gaping barriers were infinitely worse than anything she could manage. Worse than the terrible smirk on his face. Prompting her step back even though his barriers flickered with invitation. She had felt the menacing intensity of that emptiness. No way in Hell was she falling into that trap. It was rude and deceptive. Cheeks puffing up in despair she darted in then out again leaving behind a single stranded web that whispered ‘don’t fall for it’. A tripwire sitting just before the point of no return. Women were stupid. They would see the pouty set of his mouth and dive in with the hope of physical pleasure.

Then she’d have to put them back together again.

A secret little web would save her some trouble. Her own mind was riddled with the sticky traps. Every layer of her barriers warded to keep out the over eager that latched at the threads of her leaking emotion and tried to follow them in. As they descended the traps grew more nasty. From an unpleasant tingle, like the one she had slapped onto this man, to a sudden and crushing illusion of death. Not strong enough to actually kill most people, but jewels lighter than her own would shatter.

From Black widow back to healer Cyprian squirmed more under his watching. Her own eyes filled with Craft to let her see the muscle and flesh beneath the skin. All the insides of him, the parts she really wanted to see. For a minute she stood there that way, following the line of his sorry wings, peering right through his chest. Then snapping back to the moment she turned on shaking knees to the long, low row of cabinets. He wouldn’t like it if she cried. Tears welled behind her eyes anyway.

As she dug out towels and liquid antiseptic her mind whirled around the puzzle of his voicelessness. Not a thing she could diagnose without more talking. And she didn’t want to talk anymore. Not after facing his lure. Her probes hovered gently at the entry to his barriers only because they had to. Her own barrier was loose but not open. Oozing her fear and bashfulness and the steely healer’s instinct to fix, fix, fix

Wings stirring over one another, tucked in too tight to look natural she wandered slowly back. Nose flaring at the close proximity of his smell. Psychic and physical. The metallic sharpness of blood an old friend that eased her from shy creature to competent medic. ”Burns.” She warned before unstopping the flask of clear cleansing liquid. Pressing a towel at the bottom of the gash to spare his trousers a complete dousing. A second, clean towel sat over her shoulder until the rinsing was done. The wet one, now blood stained, was dropped to the floor. Replaced across the length of his wound with the clean one. Pushing lightly to stem the bleeding she nodded towards the towel. ”Hold.”

”Please.” She added, shrinking on the spot as her knees threatened to buckle. Away! Time to get away. If he bled more he bled more, she’d just rinse him off again. Retreating to the table the hearth witch had sullied with her germy posterior Cyprian perched on the end farthest from her ‘patient’. A small square frame was summoned into her hands. She didn’t look up while she weaved, a sketching little web that caught the pointless tears that rolled off her cheeks. Swallowing sobs to keep from poking the warlord prince’s temper further she filled the room with a calming spell. It was the only way she could breath without feeling the swelling need to vomit.

Offline Eremiar

Re: Windows and Warlord Princes
« Reply #4 on: March 07, 2018, 06:17:11 PM »

She nearly came in. Ere even reached for her, hoping to snag her with nasty tentacles of power. Hold her, in that dark place she wanted to be. Strip her of all her power. But she was swift and wary. Darting like those small silver fish he'd seen in streams as a boy. A time he hardly remembered but in vague flash backs and half memories.

She was too wary, or even too wise. Perhaps not as interested in mounting him as Eremiar had suspected. She looked more annoyed than flushed. Cheeks puffed out like warbling bird. Squirmed under his gaze. But Ere didn't look away to save her the embarrassment of it. He kept looking, watching her look at him.

Judging her intentions.

He could smell the salt of her tears, as she left his side to fuss in her cabinets. Sorting healing things, he assumed. Back tense as it faced him. She did not sob, but he could almost taste the wetness on her face. Saw it, when she finally came slinking back. Healer drawing her in when good sense would have seen her fled.

Ere was still. Careful, watchful still. Erylian would not like it if he hurt the healer. Seemed more keen on saving things than savaging them. Small queen. Half the time he forgot she was a woman and not a child. A grunt of recognition for her warning, Eremiar's flesh twitched as she poured whatever vile thing she had concocted over his wound. Lip curling on a silent snarl.

Watched her and her tear stained face as she worked. Placed a hand over the towel as bid, eyebrows flicking. The please mollified him somewhat. He was not her helper or her friend. Didn't really want to be her patient either but it might have upset Erylian if he had come to her cut open and bloody.

Next time he would make the window with Mornivar.

Head tipping back, Ere waited. Waited while she cried and wove a web to patch his skin. A sea of salt. Salt in his blood. Salt in her tears. He tested her barriers. Seared by all the fear and weeping he felt there. Fought against her calming spell. Going so far as to stand up and pace about the room. He would accept them from queens, but his barriers shut up against hers.

Stalked close until he could lean over her, tap the top of the frame. He was tired of waiting. Outer barrier open to join with hers. A whiff or irritation, hot impatience. He did not care if she cried. Tap, tap, his coarse finger on the frame. Towel wadded up in one hand so that his blood dripped on her floor and down the front of his trousers.

Offline Cyprian

Re: Windows and Warlord Princes
« Reply #5 on: March 15, 2018, 06:10:38 PM »
In the camps and on the frontlines Cyprian had met men that this one reminded her of. Most dead, eventually. After she had worked so hard to save them. Put them back together over and over again. Dark jewel arrogance making them cocksure. Rude.

She had never met anyone as rude as this though.

Staring while she tried not to deteriorate into a ball of anxiety. Judging her! That brought the tears over her lids too. Being judged by such a strange and twisted creature. She was that weird. Or pathetic. Both perhaps.

Next time she hoped Mornivar was swifter and his blade sharper. Sharp enough to do real damage. The sort that gave her reason to make such monsters sleep while she worked. Web refusing to bow to her intention as she worried and wept. Teardrops clinging to the spidersilk she pulled from nowhere. Making it too slick for the threads to properly bind, rolling in on itself until it was a useless tangle that she had to start over. That one was quickly ruined too, by a missplaced finger when she startled at the creeping probe he tested her barriers with. Eyes sweeping to the bed he sat on she flurried behind her soft barriers. Like a hearth witch with sudden guests trying to scrub everything at once. Psychic masking tossed up to hide all but her most base emotions. Self-abhorrence and fear of the Warlord Prince all she gave him to see. Perhaps, under the heaviness of probes darker than her barrier shields, he could sense the itch to solve the puzzle too. The interest she couldn’t hide.

Something set him to pacing. Rude and impatient! Stalking her infirmary. Crowding in on her! Spreading his filth and germs with every step. He breathed, psyche to psyche, his unwillingness to wait anymore. Cyprian was conflicted. Afraid. Wanting to shut him out completely, but fearful that would only make him force his way in. She had experienced that too. In the camps, when the men were aching and drunk but the next fight was long enough away that boredom could set in. Shivering she gasped as he crowded closer still, hanging over her like a storybook villain. The start of a third web ruined like the others- sullied by Craft tainted with too much negative emotion. The venom tooth beneath her nail worked itself free. A sharp pain of tightness, the thing never used except when it had to be milked. Teary eyes sharp she gave him a feeble hiss. ”Prince, you’re only making me take long.” More words than she had said all week.

For a man that didn’t speak. Cyprian tossed the frame, half petulant. ”I’ll use Craft then, and you’ll just have to explain the scar to Erylian.” She huffed, then settled, remembering herself and her place. Head bowing in submission to the caste more than the man. Tone much softer she half pleaded, ”And Ilithian too. Or else she’ll fuss at me for not doing my job properly.” Her hand looked very small, raised up in offer to do the task quickly. Ashamed that the tears kept coming, no matter what her inner resolve felt like. It took her a full moment to realize the sharp point beneath her blackened fingernail was still exposed in self defense.

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