#swordluck

Nights within the Clinic were harrowing, as they often were. With a gaping maw present in the sundered second floor, Sypha and Anri had taken to the menial, laborious task of trying to mend the wound no doubt rendered by the lycans that had first metamorphosed in the clinic, cobbling together materials from Sypha's ventures into Central Yharnam where they collected pieces of smashed carriages and wagons that littered the streets, avoiding the putrefying corpses of the felled equines that had succumbed to the Plague of Beasts or some other vicious mode. Nails, mallets, planks of wood, felled material that littered the Clinic proper--anything and everything was employed as the Church Hunter and Blood Saint wiled away the hours trying to make a haven of one of the few intact places left in Yharnam. As time ticked by, little by little did some of the structure recover and a little less hazy twilight poured in, the roars and braying of the Beasts a little more muffled.

Recovering within a backroom, Sypha winced slightly as Anri hovered over their hand where splinters had found a home, removing them piece by piece as the wounds left behind were flushed with clear alcohol, with a little candlelight to cauterize anything more severe. There weren't many, thankfully, as the thick leather gloves that usually encased their hands was ample protection enough. Framed by the corona of light cast by the candlelight and the silky warmth of Anri's hand, a comfortable lull settled over the pair. Interrupted only by the wind occasionally carrying the howls of Beasts on its currents, warmth swelled in Sypha's breast, eyes partially lidded comfortably.

When Anri announced that her tending was finished, Sypha blinked their way from their reverie, a faint flush stealing across their cheeks. And yet, surely the Saintess should be thanked...

With the hand newly wrapped in fresh gauze, Sypha tilted Anri's chin upwards a little and angled their face for a chaste, sweet kiss.

luckily, just before turning into the, rather densly, wooded area a few days ago, they had stumbled upon a bow suitable for them to wield. its weight and handle feel familiar in delicate hands. it is no replacement for their very own bow, crafted and conjured for their needs and capabilities only. without taking anything from their own home, even this bow is a gift. now, if only a suitable catalyst would find its way into their hands.

though, there is precious little time to lament the possibilities ahead of them, when the current situation gives enough reason to think and stay present. right now, the time to rest is drawing close - another long day, another pair of aching feet coo with the promise of rest. g.wyndolin finds a spot to rest, to relax and stretch their tired limbs, when a.nri finds her spot closeby. gentle conversation makes its home between them. then comes exhausted silence and lastly, she rests her head on their thighs, cheek pressed into their knee. it's a surprise for sure, but not a fully unwelcome gesture. connection.

affections are a concept that is alien to them, be it verbal or physical. taken aback, the first sensation that crosses their mind is concern - is she unwell ? then, a gentle comfort makes its way past the concern. have they truly grown close enough, through the trials of the road, that she can find solace in their presence ? the decision not to dwell on the thought is swiftly made. instead, g.wyndolin carefully, gently, places one of their hands on the shoulder facing upwards. the other carefully finds a lock of hair to twist between their fingers.

with the gesture comes their voice as well. gentle in tone and well intentioned. she's earned rest under someone else's vigil. for once. ❛ rest well, dear knight. ❜ it's barely a whisper in volume, a single breath away from being completely soundless.

four sacred words tucked themselves beneath her breath, and she murmurs them in some kind of muted vulnerability. arthur raises his gaze to meet her stray one. care is a poignant term, one riddled with burdens and harsh truths. care leads to nothing and no one. care leads to everything and everyone. there is no in between. whether that kills them both or keeps them clean, one may never know.

a cold hand finds the steel at her shoulder. in some ways, he is glad this barrier lay between them so that she may never know how death-touched he is, starved of warmth and starved of light. the last bit of the sun curls in his eyes, beneath wood and stone and only when she looks at him and he smiles, a glint of concern and understanding erupting from the clay textured iris to turn dirt into sand. “ perhaps that is better than not caring at all. ” a soft voice lingers, echoes in the ravine of strangeness between them. he lingers like a bad cough after a crippling sickness. a pool of water after a long day of rain. and then, he removes his hand, and he becomes a presence that is no longer there.

If there was one thing Elrond loved more than the actual healing, it was teaching and supporting other healers. Whether they were already experienced or novices that required a guiding hand. He also enjoyed the exchange of methods and rites. There was always more to learn, even for someone like him. Old age did not account for him only having one body. If he could split up and learn from all the different corners of Middle-earth, he would. But there was only one Elrond, and so he undoubtedly missed out on a lot of knowledge in places far away.

Most of the time he had the honour of imparting his own knowledge and experience. Like now, when the young healer approached him. She was hesitant at first, he saw how she had to take a moment to gather her courage. But then when she spoke of the poor, suffering girl, he saw the flame of conviction burn bright in her eyes. He also saw that she had suffered too and experienced much in her short life.

To be a healer was to hurt - in many ways. Empathetic by nature, it was difficult for most to witness pain, and the road to recovery often required the healer to inflict their own brand of pain. An arrow to the flesh already hurt, and removing it added pain on top of the existing one, but it was necessary. A healer mustn't hesistate. And most importantly: a healer mustn't let all the pain and blood harden them. To remain soft and open for the plight of others wasn't easy but necessary.

"You're Anri, yes?" Elrond made it a habit to learn the name of every healer around him. "I'll gladly tell you everything I know." He gestured towards his working table, covered to the brim but organized. There were countless flowers, herbs, vials, bottles and small bowls and pots. "You did well with the poppy," he praised. "I'll show you ways to enhance it." Usually poppy was enough to ease pain but burn injuries were among the most gruesome. Even Elves didn't recover from them easily.

"Take the poppy as base," He took a small clay jar and opened the lid, revealing a pink paste. "Crush it and add sage, arnica and clove. They will enforce the poppy's effectiveness and ease the pain." He had examples of all these plants on the table. "A burn is a hot kind of pain, right? The skin is damaged and inflamed. To cool it, use this. Aloe." It was a sturdy plant with thick leaves. Elrond took a knife and cut a leaf in half, revealing a green jelly-like content within. "It can grow almost anywhere if it's dry enough. I can give you seeds and you can grow your own stash. You can make paste out of it, as well as liquid. I like to add milk to it. That way the skin is cooled and encouraged to regrow."

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Even in his centuries spent bound to the shadow within his crypt, he felt as though he had known her forever. He felt he could trace her body blindfolded. Of course, there was no semblance of romance in the gesture. No, all of his movements were set to inhale her. To taste her. To understand her, inside and out, so that he might insert his talons into her and rearrange her from the inside, out.

In their times apart, now that she had awakened him, he would consistently push himself into her mind. Make it so she might become what he wanted in that moment. That included her dreams, so every last moment was him and him alone. For if she was to become his Bride, she could not be anything less than perfect. Perfection set to be bound to his right hand and clasped to his fist.

continued from x [ ELM ] sender lends receiver aid in a time of urgent need. Reeds creaked in the wind, brittle and brown with the dying of summer. Anri’s skirts clung sodden to her legs as she waded the shallows of the Anduin’s edge, the basket on her arm growing heavier with herbs slick with dew and river mist. A scent of loam and decay clung to everything – the peat of the bank, the wilted blooms of water-hemlock, the velvet heads of calendula she prized for poultices. Each footstep sank slightly, ankle-deep, leaving a dark hollow that slowly filled behind her. The sun was a dim coin behind cloud, the light of it silver and ghastly on the river. Somewhere, a heron cried, long and thin and mournful. The smell of water grew stronger, saltless but ancient, as if a hundred bones were steeping just below the mud. She bent low to the roots of a twisted marsh-willow, bare fingers working loose the violet-threaded bulbs of spiderwort, when she felt it – that instinctive tightening in her spine, a prey animal’s alert. She froze. Her breath turned shallow. A boot scraped the silt. Slowly, tremulously, Anri raised her head. Between the reeds, a man stood – not Gondorian, no soldier of the White City, but veiled in dyed silks and scale armour, the patterned red and black of the Southlands – his face sun-dark beneath the veil, his eyes sharp as broken glass. A Haradrim. Her throat closed. Her hand, still buried in the roots, clenched to a fist around the spiderwort. Her basket slipped sideways, trailing leaves like entrails. A sound escaped her, faint and animal, no louder than a gasp. The scout tilted his head. He moved with balletic precision, stepping from the reeds as if from a tapestry, each motion careful, elegant, awful. He said nothing, but from his hip he drew a knife with a curve like a lion’s fang. Slowly. Deliberately. Anri ran. She fled blindly, feet slapping through water and reeds, the hem of her dress snagging on roots, tearing on thorns. The rhythm of pursuit followed her, fast and certain, with none of the panic that filled her lungs. Her breath came ragged. Her vision blurred. The memory of the village returned – stone huts black with soot, meat sizzling on iron, the shrieks of the dying – memories sharp as a blade held to the throat. She thought: No, not again. He was faster and the sound of his steps drew near. Her boot slipped on wet rock, her basket fell. She would have fallen too, had not a great shape interposed itself – a thunder of hooves, a flash of rust, a blow struck hard enough to rattle the air. There was no warning. Only the sudden, brutal end of the chase. Anri collapsed to her knees, face wet with tears. She dared not look back. The river murmured behind her while her heart pounded like war-drums. Her hands were still clenched, though the herbs had turned to pulp between her fingers. The silence stretched, broken only by the sound of laboured breath. Hers and another’s. She turned. The Haradrim lay broken in the reeds, his lifeblood seeping into the wet earth, staining it crimson. Towering above him stood a man in a long cloak of Gondor, his broad shoulders marked with the sigil of the White Tree. He held a great sword, dark with blood. His chest rose and fell with the exertion of the blow. Pale rain streaked his brow. His eyes were fixed not on the corpse, but on her. For a moment she could not understand him, could not place him in the dreamscape of violence and memory. He was like something out of the legends the old women told at night, their voices low – of warriors noble and ruin-bound. There was blood on the rushes, but none of it hers. “Thank you,” she whispered. Her voice had no strength in it, but it was steady. Even so, she clutched her arms around herself, breath still shivering, and looked past him at the body. The Haradrim’s face had slackened in death, his veil torn. A young man. His knife lay half-buried in river silt. Anri stared for a long moment. “I’m sorry,” she said at last, uncertain if she meant it for the dead man, or the living one.

The road from Cair Andros was a line etched in the captain's soul, every twist and turn a familiar memory. The city and its lands were as much a part of him as his own armor. Which made the dark shape along the bank a sharp, discordant note in the song of his journey. Worse still was the sight of a second head, emerging from the reeds like a startled bird.

Boromir spurred Cyrnil into a faster gait, the steel of his sword a cold comfort in his hand. They flew across the golden plains of the Pelennor, witnessing the grim chase. The great bay, heedless of the ground's shift from grass to marsh, held his swift pace. From behind the Haradrim came the quick flash of steel. Flesh parted and the man ran a few more paces before falling. Boromir dismounted to ensure the work was done. Only after blood had begun to bloom like a scarlet flower upon the mossy mud did he turn his gaze upon the Haradrim's quarry.

Her tears belied the steadiness in her voice. The crushed plants in her hands told a silent tale of her terror. Boromir drew near with slow, measured steps, as if approaching a shy horse. With practiced ease, his calloused fingers undid the clasp, and the cloak settled gently around her shoulders. He crouched to be at her level, heedless of the sun-warmed water that soaked into the knees of his breeches.

@swordluck [🖤] starter call.

He doesn’t have the strength to hold himself up. Weakened by transformation, and only half conscious, he lies in a bath of his own gore; black ichor sticks where he’s hacked on motel tile, grime and rust smeared in their path from the door. His clothes stick to dead skin in tatters until he starts to itch. Still, the greatest misery of all is peering up at Anri where she’s crouched beside him — because there are tears in her eyes, and she’s so kind, so gentle, forced witness to his cursed horrors.