RP:Those Who Fight

This is a Healer's Guild RP.

This is a Devout's Guild RP.

Summary: After Cresente's match against Gorehilt, the avian seeks out the healers' tent just nearby the arena. Ever intrigued by the one that knocked him out, Khitt follows after the match's winner, and attempts to aid him in his healing. The two, however, both have injuries that cannot be healed through potion or magic alone.

Scattered Trees, Cenril

Cresente looks comically out of place in the healers' tent for the duelists. A dryad gently stitches the wound on his head, which turns out to be worse than he thought, and blood continues to drip from his wing, which it seems no one has noticed yet. His hands are also looking rather rough for wear from throwing bricks around, and the avian stinks of tar from his failed makeshift bombs. Worst of all is likely the empty expression and the way he does not flinch as he is being attended to as he stares at the ground.

Khitt || It was probably obvious at this point that someone was following Cresente. But, there was no move made to attack or confront him, and even now and then there seemed to be hesitation in the person’s movement, the redhead often falling behind, wondering if he should even talk to the guy. Khitti’s insistence didn’t help anything. But, eventually, Khitt did find his way to where Cresente had wandered off to deal with his wounds. He opened his mouth to speak to the avian, but quite suddenly a rush of anxiety which was usually Khitti’s washed over him. Oh gods, did Cresente hear him whistle at him? Oh no. No no no no no. Ugh. “Need help?” That’s all he could manage for the moment as he wrestled inwardly with his demons and a Khitti who would not stop urging him to speak. Of course, Cresente probably didn’t need it. There were already others tending to some of his wounds at least. And the last time he healed someone after a duel, it only worsened the wound.

Cresente does not lift his head at the redhead's approach. He knew well that he had been followed, such was a consequence of allowing oneself to be viewed publicly. Though, he had such little interactions with others that he already recognized the voice. "If you're looking for a rematch, it's a bit of a bad time for it, don't you think, lad? The chance will come to punch me again." If this was meant to be lighthearted, it does not come across that way. Instead, it sounds resigned. There is a pause, and Crescente silently extends his wing out so Khitt can see the fresh hole in it from Gorehilt's spear still dripping.

Khitt || Crimson brows furrowed somewhat as Cresente spoke, a frown lining Khitt’s lips. “What? No. I--.” What was going on with him? He was usually so eloquent, so quick-witted and silver-tongued. And yet, right now, he was the same stuttering mess that Khitti often was when her anxiety got the better of her. He sighed. The redhead closed the gap between the two of them, slowly, and eyed the avian’s wing. Khitt raised a hand to it, still somewhat hesitant, but let his appendage hover next to the wound for a moment before finally pressing the hand against it. For a big bad punchy guy, he was uncommonly gentle as the entirety of his hand became engulfed in pearly, rainbowy light, radiating a strange sense of comforting warmth as Valaane’s light carefully knitted flesh and sinew back together. “I can’t bring the feathers back, unfortunately but…” Cresente would find his wing as good as new otherwise. “Congrats, by the way,” he said quietly.

Cresente raises his head to feel the now closed stitches on his ebon hairline once the dryad finishes her work and departs to aid another. Finally, he lifts his head when the light calls for him to. The pearlescent light reflects in his irisless eyes as Khitt performs their work. "A magic user?" He remarks, taking his healed wing once it's done and passing a thumb over the naked new skin. The sensation had been strange, as though he could feel the skin and muscle being pulled together, but it had not been painful. It felt... warm? Cresente's eyes finally lock onto Khitt's own. "It's not often that one finds a magic user that's also so proficient in melee. Normally, people choose one or the other, or take the life of a paladin." A leading statement, for sure. Was he genuinely interested, or gauging a potential opponent's ability? His eyes seem to scan Khitt, before his face finally quirks into what could be construed as a smile. "I suppose we're both curious."

Khitt took a respectful step away from the avian as he inspected his wing. He let his own gaze linger for a moment, before averting elsewhere, attempting to readopt his usual stoicness. “I am many things… but less than I used to be.” His lips twisted somewhat, pursing together in thought at his own words. “A paladin’s life doesn’t suit us.” He doesn’t elaborate on the ‘us’, but if Cresente had heard anything about the redhead, the avian would know about his feminine counterpart as well. “It was attempted at one point and then literally cast into the sea.” Here he managed a faint smirk of his own. “I’m a witch, if that helps explain things. Or condemns me. Either way.” He eventually fixed his attention on Cresente again and offered a lazy shrug. “We fight the way we need to, to get things done.”

Cresente examines the witch as he speaks, only giving a nod to show that he understands what is being said. "I see." A pause. "I suppose that is better than being a paladin or a priest." He stands up, looking down at the redheaded witch. "Lesser of yourself or not, you can only make do with the parts that you have." If only he knew what a hypocrite he was by saying this. The thumb of his right hand idly passes over a well-worn ring. "I don't suppose your magic applies to abrasions as well?" He tilts his head, raising his right hand, which is now beginning to blister.

Khitt || “Psht, my magic can do anything,” Khitt said with an overly confident smirk, though it was clearly intentionally done as a teasing sort of brag. “I will admit that we work with the gods, but… not to the extent that someone like Gorehilt or Mathollak might. They’re a bit more fanatical in their ways. Even helped run the Devout’s Guild, but we’ve since moved on to other things.” He seemed unsure of whether or not to voice the fact that he was one of the leaders of the Necromancer’s Guild. Not everyone took kindly to that sort of thing. So, he didn’t. And instead focused his magical efforts on the newly shown injury. Again, there was the kindness, and the warmth, that one might not normally find with one such as Khitt, as he held Cresente’s arm aloft with one hand and healed it with the other. Eventually, Khitt would release the avian from his grasp. “Anything else?”

Cresente || When Khitt moves to withdraw his hands, Crescente turns his own and examines Khitt's left hand. He does not outright grab it, instead wrapping his thumb around Khitt's fingers to keep them from pulling back. There on the left ring finger, he can see the indentations and smoothness of skin that has worn metal for long periods of time. "I see." He says, letting go after a moment. "I'd ask if you know the cure for wounds of the mind, but I suppose no one has a magic spell for that."

Khitt || An outright frown appeared as Cresente examined the finger where Khitt’s wedding ring used to be. Reminded of things, and lost in his thoughts for a moment, he flinched when he was finally released, even though the touch and movement was barely anything at all in the first place. Quickly, he recomposed himself. “Heh, that’s what the whiskey and fighting are for,” he said at last, his voice a little shaky. Khitt sighed. “Thank you. For not taking advantage of--” ‘Me’ was what he almost said, and yet it sounded a little off, so he corrected himself. “--the situation. That day. This is entirely new territory and we’re not dealing with it well.” He shook his head, shifting his gaze elsewhere. “That is not something I will burden you with, however. You just fought an amazing match and even though your injuries have been dealt with, you still need rest.”

Cresente puts his own hands into his pockets, looking out to the arena. By now, it has significantly emptied, and the sun is hanging low in the sky. "Titles mean little to me, so there was nothing to take advantage of in regards to your boxing nights." He takes a deep breath, and withdraws a pack of menthols from his pockets, offering one to Khitt before lighting his own. "I suppose humans have their own grievances of the heart as well." He would never say that the pains humans felt would never compare to that of avians, and he would likely never realize how rude that wording was that already implied it. "I know of you, but my life is not nearly as interesting as yours. I'll tell you this, though: I made a decent profit on the side-bets of tonight's match, and I'll continue to take advantage of these. I'm going to get a ship or commission a captain that can take me somewhere no one has gone before. If you make it to my bracket and beat me, I'll consider letting you come along." It is the most Cresente has spoken in years, and he is not sure why he is telling some human about this. By the time Cresente manages to get his funds together, Khitt will be long dead and buried, just like... "I'm off for a pint." He says rather abruptly, grabbing his coat. He pauses at the edge of the tent, not looking back at the witch. "Once I've rested, I may seek you out again."

Khitt took one of the offered cigarettes and lit his own in the same manner he had all the rest during the match, with his shadowfire. The purple flames illuminated Khitt’s face darkly for just a moment, as he stuck the cigarette between both lips and lit it with the purple flames on his fingertips. He said nothing as the avian spoke, trying not to take the things he’d said to heart, as he knew full well of what most avians were like when it came to them and the other races. Still though, there was a pang of… something from the things he said, but whatever emotion it was, was dulled by the nicotine and the lovely cooling effect the menthol had on his insides. “I know a captain. Well, two, but one is long gone now.” Leave it to Khitt(i) to know two blonde, alcoholic ship captains. “His name’s Leoxander. Mainly works out of Port Rynvale, but does often come to the mainland. He’s in the tourney too, even.” The redhead took a long drag of the cigarette, savoring the taste for a moment before returning to the task at hand as Cresente started to take his leave. “Don’t be heartbroken if I don’t manage to keep up with you,” he said with a faint smirk. He’d leave things at that, offering the avian one of his trademark half-assed salutes.

Cresente takes a long drag of his cigarette as Khitt offers the information about Leoxander. He knew of him. Perhaps today would be the day they finally crossed paths. "I'll keep that in mind." To what part of Khitt's statement he is referring to is unclear, but if Khitt wanted to ask, he will have to wait for another time, as the healed avian is off on his own way again.