RP:A Healer's Bond

Summary: Many years after an icy encounter between Thamalys and Syrri, the two chance upon each other in the Venturil Clinic, where they tensely bond over their deep, shared respect and admiration for the renown healer, Emilia, who, before stepping down from her role as one of Skjoldet's leaders, had hoped to unite the pair of combatants under the clan heraldry. In good spirits, Syrri extends an invitation to renew active status with the clan under its new direction, and Halfling and Avian make future plans to meet for a drink at the clan-owned Axe & Shield to catch up.

Venturil Clinic

The floorboards creak slightly as you enter this swiftly erected building. The building obviously started out as a stone construction until the funds ran out to bring stone and the rest of the building was polished off with rather poor quality timber. However it keeps the draught and most of the elements out. This place appears to be a clinic of some variety as a number of small wooden cots line the east and northern walls and in most of them lays the sick the injured and the dying. Rushed and harried are the noble red robed healers of Venturil, who scurry from bed to bed applying 'healing hands' to the needy but there just is not enough to go around and one or two of the patients appear to have expired, this house of healing appears to be dramatically low on resources but at least thus facility is here for the needs of the town. An exhausted red robed healer points to a list hanging on the wall over his shoulder before hurrying on his way.
Gregory the Paladin is here.

Syrri ;; While normally the floorboards might groan beneath the weight of any newcomers, such a sound was muffled when a slight figure stood on the clinic's threshold. Standing at just past three feet tall (or nearly 100 centimeters), Syrri Darkfoot didn't cut much of an imposition to the light that filtered in behind her, and if anything, there was a warm glow around her silver hair as remaining rays of Kafzhash's light streaked across the Western Lands and haloed her a brief moment. She was hardly an ideological icon, though Aramoth's might held fast in her halfling bones. Yet at the sight of her, a buzz of life seemed to source into the world-weary healers, and they flocked toward the warrior. "No, no, I'm fine, look— I'm fine. Hazel, it's fine—" Assured that the local woman had no fresh wounds from the spars taking place at the clan camp found just north of the clinic, the energy seemed to wane a few degrees and Syrri could breathe again. In fact, no dirt or blood seemed to be on her at all, with her Nightstone leathers freshly buffed into an inky black-blue gleam, a simple black cloak hanging from her shoulders, well-worn axes holstered to a belt at her hips. "I'm just here for Jamie," she told the paladin in charge. He nodded, and retreated to collect some supplies into a small package for her. Left to her own devices while she waited, Syrri found an empty cot to perch on, her azure-and-chestnut eyes stumbling around the makeshift hospital with an idle boredom borne from having spent far too many days and weeks within these shoddy timber walls.

Thamalys || It never got any easier. If anything, even the Avian started to show some signs of ageing, any time he returned from yet another pesky errand that “only he could deliver” – or so the Guild told him. To be fair, he – did – in fact deliver this time, the proof of which was contained in a carefully wrapped package neatly resting in the folds of his trusty leather satchel, swinging lazily from his left side. The much more intimidating shape of Stain, the Cursed Blade, swung at his right. Only shortly after the Halfling entered the premises, the Winged Blue approached the very same walls. The battered Avian stood almost comically tall in the midst of a number of red-robed healers, scuttling everywhere like busy bees. Only a very few of those would even acknowledge his presence – not an entirely unexpected one, but still, a long time it was, since the Tzur had business in Venturil. Clad in an impossibly long cloak, black as a moonless night, only a rather attentive eye might have noticed the silvery reflections of the mithril garments underneath. Everything of him spoke of a long journey, and possibly not an uneventful one as well. To begin, a slight limp was evident to whomever watched him trudge through the wooden floor, negotiating the space not without some trouble, chiefly because of the extent of his wings – awfully encumbering even neatly folded as they were. Next, an ugly crust of what looked like old blood sat squarely on his right cheek. And finally, the tangle of ivory dreadlocks that danced around his head had no measure of tidiness to them either. A quick glance around the corridor, as per usual. Nothing out of place… or was it? Limping away, the Avian ambled toward that tiny – in his solid blue eyes – creature who was perched at the corner of the hall. Somehow, something felt familiar – probably the blades she carried, to be fair. Only, they spoke somewhere way colder last time they met – that is, if the Blue was to remember correctly. He was awfully tired, and his head was swimming. He sidestepped in front of the Halfling, lifting a long, bony finger and opening his cracked lips as if to say something…

Syrri glanced toward the paladin every now and then, but once Thamalys entered the relatively small building, her dichromatic eyes shifted sidelong toward him, and at first, her brows lifted but then they fell as recognition shifted and he wasn't the avian she had expected. Yet there was recognition there all the same, and something prickled at the nape of her neck. Drawing in a steady breath, Syrri slowly straightened from her bored slouch, instinctively lowering a hand toward the pommel of the handaxe near her left hip. She kept the weapon holstered, but curled her fingers along the time-smoothed leather that bound the handle, her grip relaxed and comfortable. As Thamalys limped along the corridor, the halfling's chin tilted, her gaze sweeping toward his feet with a subtle wrinkle to her brow. With most of the healers preoccupied and the paladin still tending to the mental list of items Syrri had implied with her message, there was no one to offer assistance, and nothing between the avian and halfling. Despite whatever alarm twisted like an anxious knot in her ribcage, Syrri delayed action in favor of a curious and drawn-out, "Uh … you okay, Ser?"

Thamalys did notice the fact that the Halfling swiftly went for one of her axes – to which he nodded with a sour grin. In his dystopic opinion, everyone in Lythridel should have been ready to the worst at any time. Syrri’s enquire stopped him in his tracks. “Why, I… well, yes, of course…” he stumbled as he reached with his right hand for his left shoulder, where Nebb usually was to be found – but not today, as the huge red kite needed to bring word to Larket. He would never acknowledge something was not right with his leg – and as per the blood on his face, it was not his after all. “You will forgive me being forward, but… have we not met before? – not here, not here…” he hurried to explain, whilst reflecting about the fact that his cloak distinctively smelled like fresh manure - probably not especially helpful in terms of lubricating the conversation. To make matters worse, the Black himself seemed to have developed a particular interest in the Halfing – that in itself was not unusual, if the interest in question would have been along the lines of murdering a small creature, but there was something out of place in the way Korkhoran ruminated about Syrri. The Blue had no clue as to why that was the case – but in time, he learned the best course of action in those cases was simply to ignore the Ancient as much as possible. “In… Frostmaw, I believe…” and as he said that he also recalled that their encounter was rather tense – and not in a good way. The ink on his face betrayed that sentiment, as it seemed to curl into an even more ominous patterns…

Syrri ;; As Thamalys drew closer, that knot in her gut continued to twist in on itself, and the avian's response did nothing to quell the unease. "Oh sure we've met, Ser," her voice rolled out with an arch curl as she rose from the cot and put another pace between herself and the Winged Blue. "You attacked me 'n the armory," she reminded him. Her hand still did not pull out either axe from their embossed leather holsters, thumb hooking around her belt in wary consideration that she still might yet do so. "An' I sure hope you don't have a mind to attack me here, too — the clan would be on your wings before you could get out." Thamalys might have passed the Axe & Shield's encampment just before arriving at the clinic, where they took advantage of the evening light pollution to carry on their practice fights, and so it wasn't an empty threat that Syrri had offered up but a simple warning. And one she hoped she wouldn't have to make good on; despite her comfort with taking care of herself in a fight, it was still far from her first instincts in any situation. This was, after all, a place for healing, and the expression the halfling had adopted gave way to an earnest appeal, which she softened with a wry and playful, "An' I don't think there are any healers free to patch ya up after."

Thamalys grinned, as the memory of their brief encounter at the Herb & Amor became clearer. “I did indeed…” conceded the Blue, a spark gleaming all of the sudden into his eyes – it did not last long, however. On any other day, the Spellbalde might have taken the opportunity to cross paths with the Warrior to set a rematch on the themes of axis and swords, but not that day of all days. He had been traveling for weeks, alone, through stormy skies and unwelcoming people – and his leg would not heal, nor even with the aid of his cleansing flames. Feirin would know what to do – or so he hoped. Amongst the oldest of the red-robed healers, Feririn knew almost any poison – and crucially, almost all the antidotes. But he could not see the old hag anywhere, and the Halfling had a point – the encampment she was talking about was very real. Instead, he locked his gaze into the eerily contrasting one of the Warrior, slowly exhaling a modicum of air – perhaps taking the opportunity at the same time to shift his weight from his right leg onto the left, whilst grabbing the edge of the wooden cot. He meant to do all that in a natural fashion, but the final result of his movements was plainly weird. “You are in luck…” admitted the Avian with a smile that carried no reassurance whatsoever, “… I am not in the conditions of giving you a fair fight today… perhaps another time…” he continued, absentmindedly caressing the hint of Stain. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the conversation between Halfling and Avian did manage to gather a degree of attention from the ever-running healers, a few of them presently pretending to have business around that exact corner of the hall. “Not that I need any healers, being part of the Guild myself…” easily lied the Blue – not about his allegiance, but positively so about his need for help, “… but as we wait to cross steel again, perhaps we could at least exchange names? It would be rude not to…” went on the Winged One, the rim of his wings twitching.

Syrri couldn't help the small but earnest smile that tugged at her lips. "Luck does tend to favor me," the halfling murmured with some half-hearted cheek. She drew in a quick breath and expelled it in an overly emphasized sigh, as though she were the type to hold a grudge (she wasn't), before accepting the terms of their tentative arrangement. "Syrri Darkfoot, at your service," she told him as she took a small step forward, giving herself room to bend at the waist for a formal bow, one hand flat on her stomach, the other swept out to her side with a soft flutter of the lines of her simple cloak. "Leader of Clan Skjoldet." Once she had straightened, she considered the avian's preceding words with a thoughtful tilt to her lips. "The Healer's Guild?" she inferred aloud. "You must know Emilia, then." And with the healer's name, Syrri's smile grew a few degrees into decidedly warm territory.

Thamalys recoiled as if hit by an arrow. “ – You – are Syrri?!” he cried, his face a perfect blend of guilt and misbelief. “I… well, I am Thamalys. With lots of other old names and forgotten titles beside that, but even I do not care about any of those anymore”. He attempted a small bow, with mildly comical results, at the same time desperately fighting the urge to carve the slender figure in front of him into a bloody mess. The Black seriously demanded some violence… which again, it was not especially surprising, but what of the anger, what of urgency? The Blue had no answers, albeit he was genuinely struggling to deal with the internal onslaught offered by the Ancient whilst trying to make amends. “I know your name very well– I am Skjoldet myself, albeit I cannot say I have been contributing much to the clan of late. Much of my time is spent… well, elsewhere, on behalf of the Guild, you see…” noted the Avian, a newly found note of embarrassment introducing itself into his low, rough voice. “I would have never dared to lift my sword against you if I knew… I knew the name, obviously, but I had no face to go with it… please accept my apologies“ he continued, lowering his massive cranium, a cascade of dreadlock falling onto his face – perhaps by design. “And yes, of course I know Emilia – she is the main reason I still breathe. She saved me too many times to be counted, and she has my complete devotion.” He did hope those words would to an extent alleviate his guilt, but it did mean them. “I have seen movement alongside the main road, but I was not aware that was the Clan’s doing… it appears many a thing have happened during my last absence from Venturil…” mused the Blue, lifting his head again – and yet still avoiding the eyes of the Halfling. Incredible what the knowledge of a name can do…

Syrri's silvery brows rose in unison to push wrinkles across her freckled forehead. It had been a while since anyone had reacted so effervescently to her name, and a rosy flush of humility spread up the sides of her neck. "Well-met, Thamalys, also of Skjoldet—" She paused here, pressing her lips into a faint line, a pensive dimple winking near the corner of her mouth. "I suppose that is also Emilia's doing," she mused aloud. Syrri harbored a deep respect for the Genasi, and it was etched clearly on the halfling's features. "Bygones and all," the silver-haired woman continued, lifting a hand as though to wave off the suggestion of any insult still lingering between them. Thereafter she raked her hand through her bangs, brushing them aside before resting the hand back on the lip of her belt. Before she could follow up on this intent, the paladin turned the corner down the corridor, wielding a package full of medical supplies and a few smaller unmarked boxes. "For Jamie," the paladin intoned quietly as he passed the unwieldy frame of Thamalys to gift the package to the smaller warrior. "Thanks, Gregory," Syrri told him in that shared low voice, punctuating her gratitude with a reverent nod. As the paladin retreated to tend to his other duties in the clinic, Syrri hugged the package under her arm, propped up against her hip and pushed against her belt. "Once you are, uh, y'know, done here not getting help—" Her smile twitched into a sly grin. "Come by the Axe & Shield if you want to catch up. You'll find it if you come looking for us." Indeed the so-called 'Axe & Shield' was a public drinking house that was more like a stall with an open patio erected along the encampment's southern flank, owned and operated by the clan's pint-sized leader. Who, at this time, was readjusting her hold on the package before considering Thamalys with a long, dual-hued look. "If you are looking for something more, we can find you a home in our numbers once more."

Thamalys nodded, slowly, as he made space – or tried to do so – for the Paladin to reach the Warrior. “I shall make sure to visit this Axe & Shield …” he offered, retreating a couple of steps into the hall. “I… need to find someone, now…” he went, nervously eyeing the corridor in search of the crouched shape of Old Feirin. “Ah…” he sighed not without some relief, as he spotted the ancient crone making her way toward him. She knew – of course she did. The Blue very rarely brought any good news with him, and that day was no exception. “What is it – this – time, you fool?” cried an impossibly high-pitched voice, somehow managing to bridge the distance between the two Healers. It appeared the Winged Beast had some more amends to take care of. “I better go, before she starts poking me with that horrid crane of hers…” he added, rather apologetically, his hand pointing toward a nasty-looking piece of carved, black wood ornated with a crow head cast in some fashion of metal. Old Feirin was coming, and the Avian knew explanations would have taken a long while. “As for the Clan… my blades belong to the Guild first, but I would be honoured to serve. I have little to teach to anyone who does not belong to my own kin, and my magic is… peculiar, shall we say. However, if the Clan would value any Healers within their numbers, I will be glad to oblige. With permission…” he quickly added, moments before the crow head smashed onto his elbow. “Yes, it is entirely my fault… no, I came as soon as I could…” one could hear as the implausible duo of Avian and Old Healer would disappear into the messy meanders of the Clinic.