#v01

The water was warm, but it still caused Alistair to hiss when it touched near his stitches.

Dorian's hands were gentle as they helped ease him back against the edge of the tub, and the blond forced what he hoped was a reassuring smile to cover the hiss. "Just stings a bit," he admitted.

Everything hurt in that dull, persistent way that came after healers were done with their work and all that was left was to let it be. It felt like his body was still trying to figure out what had been taken from it, and the removal site throbbed under the bandages they'd left in place - protecting the stitches from the water but all of it impossible to ignore. He could feel the distinct place where they'd cut, the spot just below his ribs where the growth had been taken.

Black, they'd said. Black like darkspawn blood, like taint. Like the Blight itself had crystallized under his skin.

He didn't want to think about that, though. Not yet.

So focusing on the current physical state was easier. The ache below his ribs, the pull of stitches when he breathed too deep, the warmth of the water that should have felt good but instead felt sharp and made him all too aware of his own tenderness. He watched Dorian wet a cloth, the movement careful and deliberate - he wanted to speak but hadn't yet, maybe unsure how to say what he needed to.

The High Wall of Lothric was one of the first places that newly christened Unkindled were sent, following their awakenings at the Cemetery of Ash. It was early in the morning, as the cool air drifted over the walls.

Stepping down from the bonfire, one could find a congregation of hollows, on their knees and praying towards twisted trees that had impaled their fellows. Whether those icons of slaughter were what they looked towards as worth praying towards, or if something darker was at work, one could not be certain.

Yet, among this congregation, hollowed soldiers, wearing lanterns on their belts, lay dead atop the cobblestones. Thick, coagulated blood dripped from gaping wounds, as their corpses were paid no mind.

A heavily armored man sits on a waist-high platform behind the congregation, simply watching. His lance dips down towards the floor, and his gaze settles on the sun above. Idly, a pinkish rag is run over the length of the weapon, cleaning it of the blood. 

For what reason was the assassin here?  Perhaps there was a calling that tugged at his soul, beckoning him ever higher, ever closer to the sun. To the flames that he had vowed to extinguish.

However, for a new arrival to the land of Lothric, the assassin would appear to be a terrifying reminder of times long past. Memories of Brume Tower and Eleum Loyce personified sat before her. Helm, lance and shield were unmistakable to anyone whom had scoured the earth during the time of Drangleic.

Before the newcomer, sat a figure from her past.

It was only a wonder how Lochlan would react to seeing him again, after all this time, in a new land.

IT’S  JUST  A  COLD,  and  yet  here  she  is  treating  a  gown  up  doctor  as  a  two  years  old  sick  boy.  Her  trust  in   self  treatment  started  in  childhood,  when  a  skinned  knee  didn’t  hurt  as  much  as  HER  MOM’S  smacks  when  she  found  out  she  got  hurt !  ❝  Oh,  and  I  made  you  some  raspberry  jam  toasts.  ❞  she  places  the  plate  on  the  nightstand  after  she’s  handed  him  the  tea.  ❝  Here,  inhale  on  this.  I  assure  you  it’s  better  than  aspirin.  ❞  she  offers  a  spoon  of  minced  garlic,  HE’S  LUCKY  she’s  not  expecting  him to  eat  it !

It had come to this. She had heard about the meeting with Jon Snow and Daenerys Targaryen and that White Walkers were real and very real threat.  She had told Cersei that she would stay with the Lannisters. Stay with her family. But she had other family and she knew that not going to the North to fight the dead was a smart choice.  Lauyrn knew she could understand Cersei’s reasoning but she knew the right choice. The choice that would benefit humanity. 

Lauyrn didn’t care if Cersei knew she was leaving. She didn’t care if she was caught and reprehended and hurt or killed. She’d go to the North, help them in any way she could. She packed what luggage she would need and or could carry on horseback and made her way to the stables. It would be only a matter of time before she was talked to by the guards, stopped and questioned. 

The stables that had been fairly vacant was no longer such and Lauyrn drew her dagger from her bag that was now securely on the horse and thrust it towards the person in question. “You will let me go or I will cut your throat.” Words came forth in haste, trying to not show her fear that carried over into her tone and as the dagger stilled by the throat she could see in the fading light who it was and she drew the dagger back, still in hand as she looked at Jamie, uncertain at what he was going to do. “Are you going to take me back?”