RP:Leone Versus the Halfling Curse, Take Two

Summary: After the intrepid duelist, Syrri, finds herself in need of Leone's faithful healing again, Aramoth's High Priestess steps up to the task with a fearless heart. Meanwhile, Zedidiah looks on and shares his gravy-laden meat pies, which he seems to have in abundance, hidden somewhere on his hobbit person.

The Frosty Herb and Armor

Syrri drifted in and out of consciousness as two of the healers tending to the fight carried her to the Frosty Herb on what passed for a stretcher. It was some kind of tray they'd found at the Bone Cleaver — meant for carrying tools from one section of the smithy to another, likely — but was the ideal size for a woman whose proportions were petite even for a halfling, even if one of her feet did dangle off just slightly over its beveled edge. The two healers carried her groaning, moaning figure to one of the cots, gently settling her down as one of them lifted her carefully out of the tray and onto the bed. "Ooohhhhh!" Syrri cried out, her sweat-slickened features contorted in pain. Any adrenaline that had propelled her through the last moments of the fight had been flushed from her system in the excitement of the aftermath, and the pain was sharp, throbbing with each fluttering beat of her heart. One of the healers had managed to press padding and gauze to the wound, but her arcane healing had done nothing about the spear wound itself, thus necessitating this trip. Syrri knew that was to be the case, though — she recalled in vivid flashes needing to rely on the unfamiliar priestess last time she'd been so wounded. "Leone—" Her voice rasped out with urgent need, one of her bloodied hands reaching out to grasp at the billowing sleeve of the healer nearest her. "Yes, yes, Miss Darkfoot," the healer said, taking the halfling's hand and patting it in a matronly way. Syrri sank back into the cot, withdrawing her hand from the healers as both of hers were then held over the wound. No one had bothered to remove the cuirass just yet, trying to keep the silver-haired half-pint from moving too much. In addition to the Nightstone cuirass, she wore a dark-blue tunic underneath it, matching Nightstone leather sleeves tied to the cuirass with thick leather straps, and her leggings were of the same banded, stiff leather. Bits of ice still stuck to the sharp cleats of her boots, souvenirs from the fight, but strands of silver had escaped the twisted braids, now plastered across her forehead.

Leone has managed to push her way through the excited and excitable crowd, out of the nearby smith, and into the street. The priestess is also sweaty, but for entirely different reasons. She's bundled a bit too tightly for the combination of stoked fire and body heat. The cold feels good for the moment, her skin tingling as droplets of sweat meet frosty air, and being to solidify into biting needles along her flesh. The relief lasts for just a few moments before the cleric is quickly bundling herself into her cloak once more. She's just finished lapping one of the mammoth fur-trimmed edges over the other and clasping it with a sculpted silver button and chain when one of the clinic's novice healers bursts out onto the street. It is fortunate that the woman doesn't have to go far, though she may want to find a business she's better suited for. The fledgling healer looses the contents of her stomach onto the pavement before a faltering step is taken toward the cloak-swaddled smith. "The halfling," the novice manages to belch out, "She's wounded, and asking for you." For her troubles, the newly employed healer receives a soothing pat to the back, the priest's hand already starting to faintly fluoresce a subtle but still marked argent blue. "Relax," the diminutive woman's salt-and-honey timbre pushes through the air in a puff of white steam, "Have some bread, calm yourself and your stomach. I'll take care of Syrri." Without further ado, the bantam blacksmith yanks open the Frosty Herb's door and strides inside. Her fleetness does not break until she's cot-side with Syrri and pulling off her hood, cloak, and scarf. "Eh, that was a nasty one," the holy woman says to the waylaid halfling, "But you did well." There's a brief pause while the sacred smith takes a closer look at the tiny (other) woman's wounds before she pronounces, "We'll have you fixed up in no time."

Syrri's gaze of azure-and-chestnut blurred and focused, blurred and focused before she was squeezing her eyes shut. The pain was immense, spreading outward across her torso; there was no telling from a first glance how bad the damage was, especially with two bloodied hands holding the padding down firmly on herself. But as a familiar voice pierced the fog of her mind, those eyes fluttered open, and at once, a crookedly wry grin pulled at the halfling's lips. "You were there," she grunted out, a coughing fit soon having her doubling over, and trying to roll onto her side — but that only hurt more, leaving Syrri to flop back on her back again. "I tried to tell them—" She winced, squeezing her eyes shut again before the flare subsided enough that she could fix her dichromatic gaze on the plover once more. As the padding and gauze were carefully peeled away — with more wincing and groaning as it stuck to her skin and wound — Syrri propped herself up on an elbow; one of the healers surged forward out of nowhere, adding a single pillow behind the woman's head. "I've had worse," she boasted with a dry laugh, but as the wound itself was at last revealed through the jagged tear in the cuirass, it started to bleed with renewed vigor. A stomach wound was no laughing matter, but she knew she was in good hands — the best, really. With Zedidiah suddenly arriving and eating no less (Was he ever not eating? she half-wondered), her pale cheeks flushed with color, and she reached out to pull Leone closer — as if trying to place the priestess between Zedidiah and her compromised, weakened self in her embarrassment.

Leone is already on top of the wound when it's revealed. The diminutive metallurgist's teeming, citrus-bright eyes peer down at the bloody hole with keen interest and astute appraisal. The smith's jacket is peeled away by another (different) novice healer, revealing the simple, strappy shirt the farrier wears beneath. "We'll need a curtain," she insists to the novice who is now holding her jacket. The light in the room redoubles, though not by aid of candles or lamps. Instead, the illumination emanates from the High Priestess herself. The woman's back is knotted with an odd but very purposeful amalgam of scarification, tattoos, and brandings. These implemented symbols and sigils are from whence the brilliant and growing light emanates. From Syrri's angle, and anyone on "that" side of the room, the smith will have appeared to sprout wings made of wispy, intertwined, azure and silver strands that float and undulate without wind. "You might have been worse last year," the farrier agrees to the injured halfling, "But it's this year, now. And this is the rather severe wound we have to deal with. Now." The blacksmith flexes her fingers, allowing the twinned energies to snake up her wrists, across her palms, and around each finger. Then, the digits slathered in holy magic begin to probe into Syrri's wound. The first goal is to seek out the Curse that binds the halfling against healing, and hold it at bay.

Zedidiah watches curiously. Wounds are probed, blood everywhere. It's almost enough to put him off his meal. But not quite, so he keeps munching. He should probably say something, "You did a good job beating up that other person. Sorry about your gut wound."

Syrri's dual-hued eyes shot open with wonder and respect, her gaze traveling and tumbling over the farrier's divine powers in their illuminating manifestation. "Ooohhh—" She still didn't quite understand how Leone was able to help her, but the priestess was the only person she trusted to try. Last year, she'd been too far gone to really appreciate the woman's work, but this time she intended to watch agog, biting her lip. "Is it going to hurt?" The question was rhetorical because let's be real, she already hurt, and it was punctuated by the same wry grin she'd presented earlier. It was twisted into a grimace though as tendrils of Leone's abilities coiled around her fingers and pressed and probed into the gash. "Aaaaahhh!" she hissed, sucking in the breath and holding it. Her whole body was tensed up, and she reached out with a hand, grasping at the cot's edge, crisp bedding bunched up in her small hand as she smeared blood all over it. The Curse was quick to surge forward at Leone's assault, wracking Syrri's body with a convulsion which had her throwing her head back against the pillow with a growl. She barely heard Zed's words, her eyes losing focus as blackness skirted her vision. Then all at once, she was still — passed out from the pain, perhaps? Her eyes rolled back in her skull before she began to tremble; her feet first, then her fingers, as if it started at her extremities; the Curse was fighting back against Leone, but the grace of Aramoth was no match for it. Again, Syrri's body jerked, and then again, her legs snapping against the cot's frame before she went still once more. The hard part was over, it would seem. The Halfling Curse was tempered for now and would allow the priestess to continue her task without resistance.

Leone frowns gravely and looks up at the convulsing Syrri. "Well," the smith states stridently, "That's new." Still, her conjecture was taking too long. Of course it was new. There was something new every time she did this. In that respect, everything was the same. Onward she surged, the blue and white magics diverging once plied against the halfling's tissue. The cerulean worked to knit cells back together, reattaching blood vessels, reassembling nerves, and even re-layering muscle like so many bricks in a house. Meanwhile, the dazzling white energy worked to box the Curse in. It did not seek to drive it back any further, instead digging in proverbial heels where it was, and disallowing the Curse from intruding into the space needing healing. It's a good thing Syrri has passed out. No doubt the divine blessings being directly infused into her would cause burning, searing pain. The smith's quick-heal was always painful — for both patient and healer. Already, the flesh along the tiny tinsmith's back is beginning to bubble, as if it were little more than heated tar on a cold day. Along her ribs and shoulders, the skin grows pliant, sagging into drips like a long-burning candle to reveal the tightly corded meat and crimson ichor beneath. "Anointing oil," the farrier's voice rises above the general din and clamor of the clinic, "Now!" As her functional assistant, the novice healer, runs off in search of this unusual request, the blacksmith pants a note of pain. By the time the initiate has returned, the smith is sucking wind through her teeth. She grabs the small phial of holy liquid from the healer, and begins to slather runes, sigils, and symbols on the skin surrounding Syrri's spear wound. They are, of course, blessings meant to keep the Curse out of the area, at least until she's done fully healing.

Zedidiah pours some gravy over the last half of his meat pie. Where does he get gravy? I mean he has pockets, but...gravy. He munches along quietly while pained cries and blue and white light play out behind a privacy curtain. "You should consider visiting the Redskull Trophy Ring in Craughmoyle. They're always looking for more talent." He doesn't seem to mind that he's the only one in the conversation.

Syrri didn't move anymore for a long while, not until the smith began spreading the anointing oil over her skin. At some point, presumably, the cuirass was removed for the sake of easier access to the wound — her tunic as well, and both were draped over the foot of the cot. She still wore a simple bralette that kept her modest in her vulnerable state, not that there was much to cover up in the first place. Drifting slowly back into consciousness, she stirred, Leone's fingers tickling her skin, and she giggled despite her best efforts not to. "Wha …" Lids fluttered and she cast her dual-hued eyes toward the priestess; her eyes widened, and she lifted a hand, wanting to poke at the anointing oil, but before she did, she curled her fingers into a fist, and lowered her hand, gripping the cot's edge again. "Oh fudge, like every single god," she hissed out in a single breath as her pain made itself well-known to her again, and as if to distract herself from the plover's methods, she turned her attention instead toward Zedidiah. Indeed, where did he get the gravy?! Watching him just inspired her own hunger, but it was a mild annoyance compared to all the other sensations. Offering up a wan smile to the hobbit, she slowly drifted back into unconsciousness.

Leone grunts a note, and is prepared to push Syrri back into a prone position, should the halfling attempt to sit up. "Been there," the priestess remarks to Zedidiah's comment about the Redskull, "Pretty good setup they have." She continues on with her work, waving over a more experienced healer — an apprentice — to lay instructions. "Change the bandages once a day. Wash the area only after the second day. That oil has to stay on for at least two days, in the state it's in, so that the healing can do its job. There's to be no arcane healing on her. If she needs more help, it's got to come from me." The priestess is not entirely sure that those instructions will be followed to the letter, but some are better than none. She heaves a sigh, and presses two fingers to the bridge of her nose. "I'll need an ice bath drawn. Promptly," the aging, silver-and-black haired human insists through the curtained cordone. While all of that is going on, the smith exits her little cloister of healing. The phosphorescent, leafy green sights promptly fall upon the hobbit, to whom she promptly poses the query, "Where'd you get that? Never mind. Got any more?"

Zedidiah pulls a wrapped meat pie, still warm, from the inner pocket of his vest, holding it out toward Leone, "I saw you, I think. You're friends with that great cat?" He beams with a bit of pride at this next announcement. "I helped him with a delivery. Two days on the road, and he didn't kill and eat me even once." Syrri gets a smile if she wakes again.

Syrri was out like a light — and would probably sleep for several more hours, Aramoth-willing.

Leone takes the meat pie from Zedidiah. The smith wastes no time in tearing into the wrapper and taking a huge bite. It's gone in an instant, chewed and swallowed without so much as a flinch from the farrier. "Yup," she declares in response to his question, "Orikahn and I are...friends." Almost as soon as the sentence is finished, one of the senior healers is approaching the priestess, informing her that the requested ice bath is ready. "You're lucky," the smith shoots toward the hobbit over her shoulder, "He usually only takes companions as emergency rations." In the next moment, she's ushered behind another curtain, no doubt where the accursed ice bath awaits.

Zedidiah laughs a nervous laugh, which only becomes more nervous when he decides Leone isn't joking. Luckily he had the foresight to pack a third meat pie, and he sets to work.

Syrri continued to sleep. Maybe even drooled a little.