RP:Curses! Foiled Again

Synopsis: After taking several near-lethal blows in her duel versus Jarith the Northern-Borne Knight, Syrri found herself disabled and deflated in the Frostmaw Clinic, her healing process slow as her immunity to common magic failed her yet again. Through nothing less than divine intervention, Leone's own healing is able to put the broken halfling back together again, giving the cursed female a chance to fight another day.

Healing Room, Frostmaw

Syrri had been carried to the nearest clinic after her duel. Although the healers quickly realized arcane healing was having little to no effect on the battered and bruised halfling, they had done what they could with traditional methods. The crossbow bolt that had pierced the recent wound in her left shoulder had been removed, the old and new damage patched up with precise stitches. The tip of her right ear was wrapped in bandaging as they'd done what could to keep it attached by filaments of cartilage, although she'd likely lose the tip before the day was up. Two ragged gashes curved with the contours of the right side of her scalp where the spiked shield had attempted to bash her skull in; the right side of her head was shaved, the thick lacerations neatly stitched up as well. But the worst of it all was the condition of her chest. The healers had all worked diligently through the night, but the sword had sliced through the right side of her right lung, and with each unsteady breath, she gently wheezed. A surgeon had been called in to repair the lung, and the surgery was thought to have been a success, but Syrri Darkfoot was definitely in no condition to fight. Although deflated after a good look at her odds of actually winning tonight's duel in her shape, she'd attempted to remain upbeat, cracking wry jokes with the nurses and telling daring stories of her adventures to a young set of dwarven twins waiting on their mother's check-up to be over. Propped up on an array of poofy pillows (much better than one would normally see in a clinic of this type and probably owing to the fact that they were possibly meant for a giant), Syrri could do little other than lie there, bandaged across much of her chest and left shoulder, her blanket pulled up to her hips, weaving these stories of almost-certainly-exaggerated awesomeness.

Leone is already in the clinic, and has been for days. The priestess is a disheveled mess of sweat and blood - none of the latter her own. She exudes a calming blue light, a cerulean radiance that seeps from her back and wrists. Those who are presented with the High Priestess's back are often aghast at what they find. A series of sculpted, meticulous scars cover the farrier from the nape of her neck, down the length of her spine, and out to the extremes of the outside curvature of both arms. The designs are terrifying and beautiful: a basket-handled sword in the form of a branding follows her spine, the skin shiny against the surrounding matte scars. The hilt is comprised of open-jawed dragon heads, the precision of the inflicted burn enough to make out individual teeth. Surrounding the branding is a tattoo: layers of twisting, interlaced vines form a latticework upon the blacksmith's back, each one ending in roses captured in full bloom. Behind and between the vines, and extending around to the metallurgist's side ribs, and the outer edges of each arm are scars. The lines are fine, thinly etched, and stark white against her pinkish, milky skin. Upon first sight, they look like layers of feather: wings etched into her skin. At closer inspection, the blacksmith's burns, tattoos, and scars are a series of artistically interpreted and arranged runes, sigils, and symbols, minute letters making up each one of the larger strokes in the liturgical, skin-borne piece. Soon enough, the Aramothian is ushered over the Syrri's bedside, where keen, sharp green eyes and a tempered smile greet the halfling. "Hello," the sand and silk timbre greets the even tinier female, "And what have we here? Do you mind if I look?"

Syrri couldn't help but stare openly at Leone as she approached, curious twins of azure and chestnut soaking in the sigils and runes that seemed to give off their own light, their own aura. Curiosity shifted to a weary wariness, however, as the priestess's attention turned now toward her, and the halfling's initial response was a slow shake her head. "Ain' much you can do, ma'am, but I appreciate the thought." Her lips curled into a wry half-grin, and the axeling started to shrug then sucked in a sharp breath, wincing at the pain that radiated outward from shoulder and chest at once. "I mean, yer welcome to try ..." Syrri was not going to say no to another soul wasting their time on her, but what else was the otherwise-useless female to do? It wasn't the first time she'd scuffled herself into a clinic bed, but no one would ever say the Darkfoot Clan was known for quitting. She nodded in defeat to the blacksmith, offering up a quick apology to the nearby dwarven children, who moaned and grumbled but excused themselves to give them any needed privacy. The curtains could be pulled shut if necessary, but Syrri wasn't shy. Carefully, she tried to push herself up further on the mound of pillows, gritting her teeth against another groan of pain. Despite her obvious wounds, she cracked a bit of a hoarse chuckle, "You should see the other fella."

Leone looks Syrri over once she's gotten the girl's consent. The blacksmith's fingers flex, each black-tipped digit backed by a coating of opaline radiance. The farrier reaches forward, cradling the halfling's chin in her hand. "I don't diagnose base on sight," the petite plover promises, a smile tugging her mouth into a lopsided camber. The glow emanating from the diminutive human increases, tendrils forming and sprouting from her wrist. They wind across palm and back of her hand alike, twining about each finger like miniature serpents. Where Syrri's chin meets her hand, the holy magics delve into the girl's flesh. The healing is not instantaneous; Leone is not that presumptuous. Instead, the divine magics are searching, seeking out, down, and through the halfling's form, searching for injury, ailment, and anything else that is simply not supposed to be there.

Divine magic was not something the halfling had encountered before. Over her lifetime, countless arcane healers had attempted to soothe her bumps and bruises, her self-inflicted ax-accidents ... but time and time again, their efforts had been in vain and the girl had resigned herself to more traditional methods of medicine. However, the moment Leone reached out for the stubborn point of her chin, Syrri knew this woman, this woman's magic ... it was all very different from anything she'd ever come across before. Those eyes shot wide open, a mixture of fear and fascination gripping her as she felt the divine energy move into her petite form. At one point, it felt cold, invasive and foreign as it sought out her broken pieces; the punctured lung, the severed veins, the mottled bruising that spread across the right side of her face and head, the nearly-separated helix of pointed ear ... at each meeting of magic against mar, Syrri jerked, gasping, her breathing growing ragged at every discovery as she felt more exposed than she would have been had she been stark naked in front of Leone. And then there was the curse itself; as it flared up, it pushed back against the intruder. The halfling's chest felt restricted, but she could lift no hand to grasp at it, the pain too great to move either limb in defense. "What-- what in the hell--" It was unlikely anything she'd ever felt before, and the curse did not approve of this new visitor.

Leone uses her other hand, the one not in contact with Syrri, to wave over other nearby healers. "Hold her," the cleric commands, "Gently. Do not open the stitches, while I deal with..." The sentence is interrupted while piercing, phosphorescent sights narrow upon the axeling. "...something." The comment is finished with a vicious delight, the word spoken in staccato syllables. The divine magic fights back against the curse harbored within the halfling. The sacred smith's second hand is added to the halfling's chin, sidling against the opposite curve of her jaw, fingers splaying down the miniature female's carotid. The number of magical tentacles delving into the miniature warrior doubles. The new batch head for the curse, dodging and darting around, spreading out into wide ribbons of blessed energy. They are attempting to surround the curse, cordon it off. At the same time, the divine dance continues along the wounds and inflictions suffered by Syrri. Now the healing energies are cued, a rush of white joining the blue, surging to a blinding level as more fronds unfurl from the farrier's back. Soon, the rest of the clinic is blotted out, and she is wholly surrounded by a piercing, argent illumination.

Syrri's widened eyes darted around as her body seemed to reject the intrusion with every fiber of the curse's being. "No, no!" she cried out, thrashing on the bed as the healers rushed forward to pin her down. The scar that wrapped around her left wrist, clearly old but bearing the familiar markings leftover from a burn, suddenly began to throb with pain, and she gripped the sheets, white-knuckling against the second wave of divine magic that flowed from the priestess. The curse within her struggled, the laws and logic of it fighting against the will of Leone's god. Syrri kicked against the mattress, squeezing her eyes shut as she growled out a flurry of choice words in Halfling. "It hurts--" she whimpered, trying to jerk her chin away from the plover's firm ministrations. It didn't matter if it hurt or not, though, because suddenly a warm sensation spread out over her entire body. A calming, soothing whisper from divinity to halfling, and with a whoosh of breath, Syrri collapsed back against the cushions, head lolled to the side as the healing took its course. Lung, sinew, vein, tendon, all began to slowly rejuvenate with the divine energy, putting her pieces back as they should be; the curse was not easily subdued, and it fought at every turn, but the priestess won that battle. As if retreating back to regroup, it abruptly offered up no resistance as those wounds gave way to scarred flesh, and mangled contours of skin replacing jagged abrasions as the cursed halfling slipped into unconsciousness.

Leone finally retracts the holy magics, both healing and ministrative holding the curse at bay. The metallurgist is on fire, inside and out. The shamans who staff the clinic, now used to the retribution of the God of War, immediately surround the farrier. There are plenty of wet blankets and snow, and the woman is soon packed and bustled off to a curtained bed, far at the back of the clinic. Other healers tend to the halfling, swabbing her wounds and generally cleaning up. There will have to be a conversation at some point, no doubt, once the girl awakens from her unconsciousness.