RP:Krice Found - Sort of

Part of the Surface Tension Arc

Synopisis: After being violently captured by Gevurah, Krice holds on for life in D'Artes Dungeons. Nymh, sent to scrub the floors, comes across the new prisoner and recognizes him as the man that fits Emilia's description. Nymh tries to heal Krice through magical means, but his magic has no effects. Krice asks Nymh to tell Emilia to leave the Underdark. Nymh has doubts that this man is strong enough to escape House D'Artes.

D'Artes Dungeons

Krice was the newest prisoner to the D'Artes Dungeon, brought in several hours ago - the previous evening. Still unconscious, the wounded male was grounded to the small square footage of his cell, on his side, dressed in simple silk clothing - long pants and long sleeves. understandably, he harboured no weapons. The warrior lay on his left side with his face angled down toward the space created under his shoulder, features half-obscured by long, silver. For all intents and purposes, he looked dead, but if one observed him long enough, it would be clear that he was still breathing - albeit shallowly.

Nymh was to clean the dungeons again today, with a horse brush... meaning, a lot more pain on his knees. Fortunately, unkown to others, he knew healing magic, through song, and his knees and back were in much better shape than they ought to be. When he came across Krice, he blinked. He was obviously from the surface. He had long, silver hair. Just like Emilia had described. A beguilement was cast through whistling towards the over seeing guard, leading him to daydream, and generally ignore Nymh. He'd approach Krice's cell, washing outside of it as he was supposed to, and would look more directly at him. Unless such colors were common among the surface, this was the man Emilia had come looking for. Nymh hummed a song, low, under his breath, and it would give Krice a little healing. Enough that he'd be able to hold onto consciousness, at least, and feel slightly re invigorated. It'd probably do little for the pain, and any greater injuries. He needed to use his ocarina for a stronger effect. "Sir? Sir? Do you know a pale surface woman by the name of Emilia?" It was a hushed whisper, and he said it with furtive glances cast towards the enchanted guard.

Krice must have been healed somewhere beneath his clothing because otherwise, Nymh's magic didn't work. As the drow slave spoke, he'd find that Krice did not immediately wake up, but his lashes flickered as if he was trying to, and his right hand, of his top arm, twitched into a loose fist.

Nymh sighed, as it seemed his healing wasn't enough to help rouse the man. At least he'd have a chance to tell Emilia where the man she was looking for was, however. He'd slip her a note. He made sure the guard was still looking elsewhere, and take out a needle and thread he'd ferreted away, stitching up the black spider silk of his pants at the knees. He liked these clothes, and took risks to care for them.

Krice woke roughly three minutes later, his shoulders jolting with the force of a sudden cough. He stiffly turned his head more toward the floor and hacked up a glob of blood, which splat quietly beneath his face. Tendrils of residual fluid dribbled over his lip to join the blood already on the cold ground, and Krice managed enough movement to curl his left arm up, elbow grounded, so that he could lethargically press his hand over his right ribs. He winced, groaned, and then finally, opened his eyes to attempt a visual assessment of what the hell was going on. He seemed initially oblivious yo Nymh and the enchanted guard, and even the fact that he was in a cell.

Nymh looked back after sewing up his clothes, and returning to his scrubbing. He scrubbed while watching the man, waiting for him to come to, if he ever would. It wasn't as though Nymh had much else to do. At least he wouldn't be beaten for looking at him, thanks to his musical ability.

Krice heard a distant 'shffuh, shhfuh' noise but he was too out of it to comprehend what it was. Moving wasn't an option for the damaged swordsman, so all he did was shift his eyes, trying to glean some details about the place where he was. Various scents were rank, strong, potent especially for his evolved sense of smell and he coughed, immediately wincing for the action. The man tightened his hand against his ribs to try stave off this most recent discovery - which is when he noticed Nymh. In silence, because he had not yet encouraged himself to speak, those deep red eyes stared at the drow boy.

Nymh would try again, with his question, when Krice was able to make eye contact. "Do you know a surfacer named Emilia? She came, looking for a man. I think that man is you." He'd loose his whispers, then wait, scrubbing in the dark.

Krice struggled to -maintain- eye contact, his own eyes rolling subtly in every which direction as unconsciousness threatened to steal him away at any moment. " Emil...ia..." He felt his way around the name, tasting its form on his tongue, and though he might have seemed familiar with it, he did not outwardly express as much.

Nymh sighed, watching the man. He was insensate. Something had kept his healing magic from doing its work, but there was nothing to be done for it. If the man was this weak, it was very likely he would die here. "If you can't even stand on your own two feet, I'll not be risking mine in such a futile effort..." He mumbled, mostly to himself. The man was as good as dead, unless someone managed to teleport him out... which, considering where they were, was not an option.

Krice closed his eyes through the duration of Nymh's words, but as he came to his conclusion, the warrior managed to grumble out a hoarse, " ...Get her... out..." Was he talking about Emilia? Did he want Nymh to escort the Genasi back to the surface?

Nymh looked to Krice. "I intend to. If I myself, can accomplish such a feat. I have my doubts. You happen to be in the first house of the underdark, D'Artes. It isn't often that a slave escapes here. A half dead prisoner would have no chance at all." He looked quite sour. He'd wanted to bring Emilia good news, but this was far from it. At least she'd have the closure of knowing his fate.

Krice could barely hold onto anything that Nymh was saying, though he did try. Somewhere in the midst of the drow slave's words, the warrior parted his lips to attempt speech, but only spoke when Nymh was finished. " She... needs to leave..." He winced, his body aching. " Tell her... I'm fine..." Talking was more of an effort than he remembered it being, so he fell silent after that to recoup strength lost through the simple act.

Nymh sniggered for that. "Yes, I'm sure she'll believe THAT." It was a stupid request, and one he would pointedly ignore. Krice was half dead in the D'Artes dungeons, far from fine. Nymh shook his head. "Wish I could help you more, but it seems for some reason, you don't take well to magical healing. Never seen anything like it, really. And I thought I had *drow expletive* luck."

Krice didn't have the energy or patience to argue with a drow, so when Nymh pointedly found wry humour in his request, the warrior shut his eyes and pressed his lips together in frustration. As the seconds ticked by, however, he began to drift back into the world of the unconscious, his bruised and battered figure motionless and quiet once more.

Nymh heaved a great sigh. This was far and beyond something he should do, he knew, but he had to try. He looked to make sure the guard was still off in lala land. He was... he was a weak willed guard, brawny, but with hardly a mind to speak of. Nymh drew forth his ocarina, and played a healing melody for Krice. If Krice could stand when the time came, he stood a chance of surviving, of escaping. Nymh risked much, to play his melody. It would sedate, and soothe, necessary for the guard to hopefully not take notice, but it was a song of life, at its core. Tapered fingers pressed to holes as he breathed life in the instrument, and the melody flowed forth, filling the dungeon. If this didn't help Krice to heal, nothing would, but Nymh would be able to say he'd tried his best.

Krice seemed so injured and out of sorts that one wouldn't think him in possession of some kind of healing guard, but as Nymh's song swirled around him, touching him, perhaps the drow would be able to feel that his magic did not even pierce the warrior enough to heal him. At all. Was Nymh's magic fading, or was something else at play? Whatever the case, the warrior was gone from the waking world, once more engulfed in the empty darkness if unconsciousness.

Nymh sighed, as he saw no visible effect, looking nervously towards the guard. "Risked my hide for nothin'." He'd get back to scrubbing, and do his best to ignore the probably soon to be dead man.