Rhosyn’s heart thrummed anxiously within his chest, his palms slickened with a film of perspiration courtesy of the residual body heat that resulted from the tireless wave of patrons that frequented the established infirmary. Arlathan, in its’ infantile state was besieged by innumerable wayward souls, each seeking out a place to call their own. Truthfully, the elven mage had been no different, weary of the ceaseless travels and migrations his Clan seemed predisposed to. But that wasn’t the sole factor that wore upon him, no, it was also the hushed whispers, the estranged nature of his status within their ranks – he was tolerated by virtue of the skills provided to the collective whole.
The reason? His unduly familiar bond with Eros, the spirit of curiosity to whom he’d sworn a pack – a specter, of whom he frequently conversed with in hushed whispers. Rhosyn, why does your heartbeat so erratically? You have apprenticed as a healer in some capacity far longer than most your age. You may not be the most skilled, but you possess a wide berth of knowledge… , Eros’ affirmed whisper resonated through his psyche, its’ presence a welcomed balm that inoculated him against the subtle coppery tang that perforated the air, its’ depths mixed with the subtle sickly-sweet bouquet of rot and decay.
Most of these injured souls, do not know me, nor understand our relationship – I can only pray they are more open-minded than our clan. Rhosyn whispered beneath his breath, his dusky verdant-hued orbs temporarily transfixed on a patient with a dislocated shoulder. One of his sun-kissed calloused fingertips grazed their wrist seeking out a pulse, an indication that the blood flow had not been compromised. His expression visibly soured at its’ absence, the tepid cooling of the limb and the faint discoloration of the tips of their fingers. I apologize, this shant feel pleasant. Rhosyn said as he’d placed his hand upon their shoulder, ignoring the grimace as he’d directed them to lay upon their stomach on the cot, their afflicted limb dangling off the edge.
You, while I tend to your injuries, I need you to pull softly on his arm for a period, you should feel it shift or pop audibly when it has returned to the position – hold it there for me until I say to release Rhosyn directed as he’d guided the second individual who appeared to have several lacerations from a beast that had scabbed over but appeared to have grown infected. Without a word, he’d knelt his hands hovering mere inches from the wound as he began to incant beneath his breath. Tendrils of amaranthine drifted from his hands towards the wound, its’ phantasmal nature flowing inwards as he began preliminary attempt to treat for poison and if that didn’t yield results, he’d consider attempting purification. He was hesitant to employ a healing aura, if for the sole reason, there was the risk that the wound itself would heal but the infection would be trapped.
Certainty, it could have been resolved with potions or poultices, however, those were a commodity even with alchemist attempting to brew and harvest what was needed to treat the influx.
Arriving in Arlathan had felt akin to arriving in Haven. Except there was no giant hole in the sky and nearly every face had been an elven one. Establishing and supplying the infirmary had been old hat, orders and instructions being handed down to quickly set about treating the wounded coming in with each caravan of refugees. There had been many sleepless nights and likely many more ahead, but the team slowly assembling were beginning to find their flow.
Helping the injured and sick was familiar territory, grounding Megara with the upheaval and newly fallen veil bringing… companions each mage had to come to terms with. Even those who had no magical ability, although rare, had somehow attracted spirits or demons to cohabit with, surprising even those who shared a close kinship with the beings. As healers, most shared a deeper connection to the fade, often strictly watched within circles and clans for fear of possession. Megara herself had felt a strong connection to one of compassion… or what she had thought had been compassion. No amount of gold could have had her bet on an Evanaris taking an interest in her, let alone the Hearthkeeper herself, Sylaise.
Megara had been dalish once, and when realising the privileged position she’d found herself in the two had spent a great amount of time in deep meditation, gaining and conveying understanding of the new way of things now no barrier separated mortal from the effects of the fade and magic. Yet, only a piece of Sylaise had come to the elf, the ancient being only a partial shell of her former self though still undeniably powerful now with the veil gone. Unlike some, the healer did not seek to use this for her own benefit, choosing as always to lend her talents for those less fortunate, those without power to change their fate.
Today she strolled through those being already treated, pausing to listen and oversee, offering advice when needed or in an effort to benefit both physician and patient. Each person she talked to, calmly, warmth in her smile even if their wounds appeared grave, offering a kind word before sitting with them. She had been holding the hand of one passing over, their pulse slowing, fading until the previously warm skin began to cool. After a moment she begin to prepare the body, folding their hands over their chest and up to their face, closing the lids of eyes void of vibrancy. Finally, after folding a sheet over the face Megara moved on, looking to help change the fate of someone else in time to avoid adding to Falon’Din’s score.
Death would have no more. A foolish declaration, which she knew clearly, but entertained regardless. Eyes glanced around this new part of gathered souls until finding one medic caught between two injured souls attempted to heal them simultaneously. Meg chuckled to herself, path diverting to lend some assistance.
If I pull his arm, you can tend to the other more thoroughly, yes? Meg explained, taking the dislocation patient by his good elbow, and urging the scratched man towards the medic. We should have poultices tomorrow, they still need time to prepare the herbs, but they promised me tomorrow. She nodded once eyeing the wounds, Prob just a basic purification should do it, but you my friend, turning her newly acquired patient with a grin, On the count of three and we’ll get you back to two arms and functioning hands, yeah?
Megara’s innocuous query served as a catalyst, unintentionally dispelling the momentum he’d built within his incantation – the tendrils of amaranthine that wove themselves from his fingertips to the wound quivered in a manner akin to an archer’s bated breath as they prepared to loosen their arrow. His tongue felt leaden for a fraction of a moment, the arcane syllables temporarily abated, stalled just long enough to provide a curt nod of his head. His efforts redoubled, words reinforced by intent as he’d reigned in the spell craft before it further destabilized, and its’ recoil assailed either himself or the patient.
Megara’s knowledge of the logistical challenges faced by the minted healers of Arlathan hinted of a regrettably intimate relationship with bloodshed. It was only after his chant concluded and the arcane energies stabilized did, he speak. “Yes, that would be most appreciated, it would undoubtedly do wonders for my focus – not having to ensure he doesn’t overcommit to the pressure on the dislocated limb. Despite his familiarity with his craft, he had not yet reached the pinnacle of mastery that would permit his mind to wander – an undoubted shame indeed, a more skilled healer could still be engaged with triage and calculate out their intended warpath against death itself.
A soft sigh of relief escaped from between his parted lips, “That brings me some semblance of peace of mind.” Rhosyn affirmed with a soft whisper that scarcely rose above the din of pained groans and cries that resonated through the Infirm. His expression remained unsullied as Megara provided her input about the methodology he’d employed, reinforcing that he’d made the right decision. See, you must not doubt yourself so Rhosyn, your methodology is sound, you’ve kept yourself grounded with the tides of despair and acted as you’ve been trained… Eros whispered softly, its’ anamorphic head craning to the side, its’ arms spread wide, eternal shackles clinked softly in the back of his mind.
Truthfully, Rhosyn pitied the man that Megara tended to, knowing that once the joint was back within its’ rightful position, he would be overwhelmed by a sensation of relief – it was getting to that stage that was trying. “Thank you again, Lady… Rhosyn’s voice trailed off, hinting that he wasn’t certain how his fellow healer wished to be addressed. “ Once I’ve drawn out the infection, would you like me to prepare a cravat or a makeshift sling for his arm to ensure it does slide out of position yet again? Rhosyn inquired softly as his foci shifted back to his patient, noting how the amaranthine tendrils he’d summoned forth began their return passage, its’ depths were now marred and tainted by a tangible presence of rot and decay – its’ coloration akin to rust.
His expression tightened as those motes of sickness began to dissipate into nothingness, the enflamed borders around the wound began to steadily deflate and the regular coloration came back. Meanwhile Megara’s patient whimpered in anticipation of the pain to come, somehow, the burden of the knowledge was not always a blessing. As a skilled combatant, they’d dealt with their fair share of dislocations, albeit it was typically a smaller joint such as a finger as a result of a brawl within the pub or a gest between friends gone wrong. “Yes Mi’Lady…” her patient responded with a hint of reluctance; their facial grimace preemptive as they began the count down on their own accord… “one…. Two….” their voice trailed off towards three, a palpable tremble going through their body as they set their teeth, the initial syllable of three forced between gritted teeth.
Does the knowledge of relief pain him so? Eros probed, “It is not the knowledge of relief, but the pain that accompanies it… sometimes the best medicine is bitter and hard to swallow.”
A decade in Kirkwall had been her greatest teacher. Life in the Coterie wasn’t uneventful and when the Qunari had attempted to take the city it only served as a deeper warning of what was to come. No-one had expected the mage Anders, a healer, to light the match of rebellion, snuffing out countless lives and plunging Kirkwall into chaos. Joining the Inquisition after the destruction at Haven was only natural. Now, with her companion Sylaise, Arlathan seemed the natural place to be.
Unfortunately no-one has come up yet with a clone spell to double our efforts. Would make these busy days less draining. The older elf grinned, gently taking the arm of her new hesitant patient into the required position. Once arranged Meg offered the man an apologetic smile, On the count of three yep. three was never uttered, and with a practised, hard tug, she realigned the shoulder with a telltale click. The man’s cry was more of surprise and relief than the short lived pain, his surprise shifted to almost disbelief that this short, waif of an elf capable.
Her smile was undaunted, all too used to peoples low expectations based on her common and homely mannerism. She was unfussed by a person's station, talking and dealing with everyone with the same respect. You are doing admirably, offering her colleague a glance while applying some pain relief. Her palm rested against the blade of the shoulder, magic flowing, soothing nerves and muscles from the strain.
Megara is fine, she’d snort, chuckling at the idea of a title. I’m no-one important, just.. experienced, and you? What’s your name? A sling will do him fine. Healers didn’t learn in isolation, they needed injured people to hone their craft, but everyone needed a mentor, someone to cheer them on until their confidence had solidified. We’ll wrap up these two and take a break, I think you’ve earned it.
I fear the day that comes to fruition. Not everyone possesses the aptitude to be a true healer – more less-skilled hands could very well make more work. Rhosyn replied, his tone remained light and airy, it lacked any semblance of malice or distain painting the visage it was simply his own musings. Als, if those hands were skilled, it would make triage and addressing life-threatening injuries infinitely less nerve wracking.
As the countdown began, Rhosyn’s expression cemented itself into stoicism, refusing to betray the fact he wholeheartedly doubted there would ever be a “three” uttered aloud. It was a trick that most passed onto their protégé, it provided a false sense of security and prevented the individual from tightening their muscles or resisting the efforts. Not that Rhosyn could fault them, it was a natural-born instinct to guard oneself from pain.
His expression visibly tightened at the pained yelp but relaxed as he’d registered the faintly audible click, it was accompanied by the rapid waning of his shrill cry and protest. Thank you Mi’Lady. Rhosyn replied to the proffered kindness and commendations. His gaze momentarily lingered upon her hands as they’d settled upon the injured man’s shoulder as she’d wove her craft and imbibed the man with the inoculating healing energies.
My name is Rhosyn, my father and I were part of the last way of migrators. Rhosyn confessed as he’d let the last wisps of magic cease spilling from his fingers, inspecting the margins of the injury, pleased to see the skin was no longer warm to the touch nor did it produce that sickly odor. Rhosyn’s attention turned a pile of cloth that had been set side. Rhosyn would take the man’s uninjured hand and do his baseline measurements and initial knot tying before he guided the man’s arm into the desired position.
Quite so – whatever infection he had was quite deep rooted, it took far more out of me than I anticipated. Rhosyn confessed, knowing the severity of an injury typically rapidly scaled up the associated draw upon their mental resources. How many times had he been left in a fugue after a particularly challenging hunt or an ambush. His body was willing to press on but his mind reached its’ limits and if he tried to push on, it felt akin to a searing piece of metal imbedded itself into his skull.
Do you think, this place will become a sanctuary for our kind – or is it just a temporary reprieve? Rhosyn probed, the years of existing as a nomadic entity, uprooting oneself as the first sight of trouble or bad tidings. It wore upon one’s soul.
Megara chuckled warmly at his response, the reluctance to allow untested hands roam the infirmary halls clear. Her head tilted though, mind briefly contemplating how one would perhaps begin fabricating such a spell. Curiosity sought her to ask Sylaise to which the Evanaris paused, the fragment of the ancient mage quietly shifting through what memories she could recall. It might be possible, but I lack the memories of such a thing. Curious, but the elf left it at that, It’ll be figured out one day by someone far more clever than I. There’s nothing wrong with the skills we have, they just take time to learn and perfect like any other skill.
No-one ever said three, it was best that this unfortunate action was left as a surprise, catching the patient unawares usually meant treatment went more smoothly than when one was guarding against the waves of pain. Well Rhosyn, welcome to Arlathan. Thank you for pitching in here, Meg greeted, flashing him a grin before finishing up with her patient and asking him to keep the arm elevated until the sling was on.
Her brow furrowed some, offering him a knowing look, Now, now, she’d gently chide, her tone still gentle, You can’t be both healer and patient on your first day. Some food in you will see you right, c’mon. Each had their own pool of magic to draw from, each understood their own limitations and what could happen if they went beyond it. Mana sickness could fell a mage for weeks, the unnatural fatigue affecting both body and magic that could kill if untreated.
Their patients treated, Meg gestured him to follow with a jerk of her head while her hands unrolled the sleeves of her shirt bunched up at the elbows. They walked, Meg setting them at an easy pace and though his question caught her off guard, it was one that she thought lingered in the minds of many. Mmm, she began, taking a moment to think, I think… I think it will be, if we choose to see it through, support it, defend it. Arlathan is the First Hearth. With the veil gone it’s only natural we return home, help rebuild it and perhaps rebuild ourselves?
