sir rictor cassul, korporal. (templars) wrote in emillion, @ 2013-05-17 11:57:00 |
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Entry tags: | !complete, !log, almalexia lliryn, rictor cassul |
i'll be your church where you pray so i can heal you.
WHO: Korporal Rictor Cassul & Almalexia Lliryn.
WHAT: A stubborn Blade finally submits himself to some curative magic after the dock attacks, and seeks out a certain mage to do so.
WHEN: Recently.
WHERE: Deep in one of the Grande Cathedral's libraries. Basically, this log in a nutshell.
WARNINGS: None.
STATUS: Complete.
He’d developed a strange aversion to the instant healing, instead taking a few days to savour the feeling of flesh knitting back together, bones twinging in sore protest, and to trace the webwork of cuts scabbing over. He started each morning before the mirror studying the mottled blacks and blues across his skin, re-mapping the landscape of his face, and gingerly touching the nose that had been broken all over again. If the body was a temple to Faram, then Rictor Cassul was a man standing on the rubble and surveying the wreckage, before he let others pick up the pieces for him. The meeting with the Cardinal had been carried with a limp, his spine held straight against the pain. Then as the days passed, he’d tested a Cure on himself but grudgingly so – this all came from self-sufficiency, the same kind of teeth-gritted obstinance that led to him pulling bullets out of his shoulder while abroad, sewing up deep cuts with clumsy fingers in the field. But he wasn’t in the field anymore. He was back in Emillion and pacing the the cathedral before the feldwebel had finally corralled him in the courtyard, fist knotted in the fabric of his shirt, hissing: Go see the kaplan. Rictor wandered down the familiar hallways (he suspected could navigate it with his eyes closed, one hand drifting against the worn stone walls as he went) and lingered in front of the turn that would lead to the dormitories, towards an assortment of meek and quiet women in hooded robes. He knew he wouldn’t find her there. So for the left turn, then, and the steps that led towards the library and a certain non-guild mage. White magic worked best when it came from another’s hand. This was a prime hour for study. A perfect time of day, more precisely, to escape into tasks which by far Lex preferred to indulge herself in--the specific application of an over-curious mind to something that had a rather high percentage of not getting her immediately into trouble: research. Not that the ratio was perfect, of course (that was a theory already disproved by those who had ever had inkling to put books away where they thought she couldn't access), but for the subject in question it was certainly as close as she would come on any normal day. Thus, the library. An offering of knowledge anyone should be hesitant not to partake of, in her regards. For the books here were not only in pleasing supply, but many were also prized rarities, houses of rare information for use to the small number cloistering themselves here from day to day to study. It made her work enjoyable on most days, and so it was that one entire table had been neatly organized with books, spread out in a sordid collection of open pages where one point referenced another and could easily be cross-checked. And there were papers as well, no doubt the abundance of lists and notations covered whatever else of the table top that was left plain, the finished effort looking something on the edges of brilliance or madness. Once she was finished with her tasks for the day, however, her superiors would no doubt find themselves without question to her skill and efforts. And if they somehow did, well, Lex at least had spent her time pouring over something that could maintain her fascination for an adequate length of time. The hours already had passed before her quickly that day, and by now the afternoon sun was filtering through the library's stained glass windows in brilliant color upon the floor and narrow rows of neatly organized tomes. She was caught distracted. Standing over the table, pen between fingers as she tapped it against the stack of papers nearest, her mind was distracted by numbers and figures and dates of arguable importance, roused only by the footfall which echoed around the room to startle her. Lex and her over-abundance of thoughts came then to a sudden, perfect halt, as she looked up and deduction transformed to simple, solid fact. "Rictor," she said, the name punctuating the air like first shot volleyed. Quiet perhaps at most times, but meek was not an astute description, and Lex looked around briefly to ensure to herself no one else would be present for her reunion with the korporal. Faram, what a day this was no doubt going to be. “Lliryn,” the man answered crisply, instinctively gravitating back to military formality, his voice the clipped accent of southern Kerwon. Almalexia was what he hovered on not-saying, and Lex. The arithmetician was one of the many odd artefacts milling around inside the Pharist cathedral: an object of curiosity, the monastery’s kept bird and foundling, a pale figure Rictor had immediately spotted in the stacks upon his arrival two years ago. Paradoxically, he preferred to take some vinegar with his remedy – hence seeking this one out, rather than the much more amenable chaplain. Rictor cast an eye across the table, with its assortment of flaking tomes and musty books. The Blade stood with palms clasped behind his back, face yet ravaged; there was the slight twinge to his movements and he carried himself gingerly, ribs likely bound beneath his light cuirass. “Having fun in here?” Ric asked aimlessly, picking up one of the books and skimming with mock negligence. (But one finger propped open the page she’d been on; bandaged knuckles balanced it with surprising care.) “It’s a beautiful day. You should be outside.” There he was, in all his immediately bothersome glory. Whatever intricate pattern of thoughts Lex involved herself in before Rictor's arrival were now completely disrupted, as per the usual. It never helped matters that he was a giant, bestial man, towering over her in every physical capacity--one could not ignore Rictor, only combat him until he decided to retreat and return once more. How many years had she suffered him thus far? Lex set down her pen and tried not to sigh. She stood her ground, of course, not bothering to shrink back as the lurching behemoth decided to paw at her books in some form of entertainment. No matter how frustrating the sight was (everything was obviously organized to a particular delicate fashion), and no matter how much she desired to swat at him and try and take back her book, Lex maintained the majority of her outward calm--so far. Instead, she stood in similar straight-backed fashion, giving him a very detailed once-over. It was nothing Lex wanted to see. And she didn't mean that as she typically would, but more in regards to the obvious strain with which he carried himself, the myriad of visible cuts and bruises on display and the nose that showed hints of being broken. However much Lex could see, of course, there were no doubt an equal number of wounds hidden to her eye. It was a reasonable deduction born from experience, and the longer she watched him the more displeased she became. Of course, at least he hadn't shuffled his way in here with his innards dangling out on the floor, but Lex suspected that Rictor was capable of something just as careless if left to himself too long. "It was here, or underground actually," she corrected him. "You haven't caught up with recent events yet I gather." Lex folded her arms across her chest, already growing bored of looking up at him. "But I doubt that's why you're here." He ignored the implied demand for answers, instead leveraging himself into the only chair unoccupied by books. It dropped him to a lower vantage point, the easier to meet her eye. He’d seen the way Lex tipped her head back, and was intensely aware how cricks in necks tended to develop around him – at least, this was what he told himself. It had nothing to do with the small flares of pain that came from standing. Of course not. Underground? It took him a moment, then: “Ah. The Necrohol? A fine place,” Rictor said dryly. “A delightful vacation spot. Cozy burial plots, intimate lighting, and friendly natives. I’d give it five stars.” He’d spent most of his own apprenticeship at Mt. Bur-Omisace, bundled in furs while the wind howled and tried to pluck the feeble humes from the sheer cliff face, smashing them on the rocks below. The pilgrimage was meant to foster an appropriate humility, an awareness of one’s place in the world, the sheer dizzying scale of existence and where mankind fell in the spectrum. The open, shrieking skies were a far cry from the dank darkness of the Necrohol, but Rictor was familiar with both. He gave her another once-over. “Are you too busy solving the mysteries of the universe and banishing the undead from whence they came, or can you spare a minute?” Rictor's attempts at wit were met with the usual roll of eyes, as Lex was honestly very loath to speak about her humiliating misadventures in the cavernous tunnels of the Necrohol. As if she might need some reminder of her weaknesses, and that she would forever, it seemed, need to rely on foolish knights such as the one before her to get anything useful accomplished on a battlefield. Intelligence and magical abilities could only take her so far. Besides all of that, any lingering discussion on what was down in those underground passages was enough for her to feel more than a little discomforted. And there wasn't any use for more of that here. At his response to her question, however, Lex's posture relaxed slightly and her arms fell to her sides. Now that he was sitting (she would later thank Faram for small blessings) she could meet Rictor's gaze more easily, and did so as she said to him, "Why yes, Sir Korporal, how might I refuse such a request as that?" Truthfully, he needn't have asked at all. Another great shortcoming she had no real desire to examine at length, was how easily it was that she was drawn into helping people. Yes, even Rictor and his multitude of battle wounds and insufferable jests. Already her hand was raising up to examine the cuts on his face, stopping just short of actually touching his jawline. Lex made a face. "Have you properly cleaned these out at least?" “Of course,” he said automatically, bristling. (And what was it about him that made him susceptible to this scolding from women? Aspel had lectured him just a day since, and Elvira had smirked and winked and declined the healing.) His head tilted slightly away, jaw stiffening instinctively – even now, with this, Rictor found himself hard-pressed to openly ask for assistance. A good thing, then, that she could already tell where this was going. “Cleaned and bound, but no spells performed. I was just testing...” The rest of the sentence faltered. “Something.” A pause, before he gave another attempt at explaining himself. Rictor could rattle off his ploys at empty humour all day long, but wrangling his thoughts into words made them tangle and knot in his throat: “I needed to see how long it took to heal on its own. I lose touch otherwise, and forget what our actual limitations are. How far I can push myself. Sometimes I feel we grow too dependent on magicite.” But then the knight grinned, shifting to meet her gaze. “But the word from on high is that I must back on my feet to do Faram’s good work, and you need the practice, so...” Lex had her eyes on that broken nose of his again, but she could tell quite obviously he felt bothered by her line of questioning. Though there was a thrill in it, she could admit, to finding some sort of way of needling under Rictor's skin, it was also never as completely satisfying as she hoped either--and she hadn't yet decided if this was a fault or virtue. As he fumbled around his words, trying to make some kind of pointed argument about why ever he decided to go so long without being healed, she had already begun to get to work. "Unfortunately, we all find ourselves dependent on something," Lex replied, and her touch on his cheek was feather light as she concentrated on mending his skin and cartilage, making sure the scars were as faint as her abilities would allow. She might've only been an apprentice, not quite yet an official Arithmetician, but the way Lex weaved magic was as precise as those she was intending to follow after. It took a great amount of concentration and as such, her voice came out slightly distracted. "Whether or not we wish it so." The warm light of curative magic drew subtly around each wound, every cut and bruise there was to see. She could only really guess at most of his injuries, but if he was as competent as he claimed, Lex wouldn't need to be as... attentive about this as she feared she would forced to be otherwise. "I've become quite a bit better about this, you should know." She was tempted to give him a dirty look, but instead her higher instincts won out (probably) and a hand was placed on his back, concentrating the magic elsewhere. The more she focused on healing, of course, the less she needed to concentrate on him specifically. While Lex busied herself with the work, a familiar humming set into his bones and a vibration in his teeth that wasn’t entirely unpleasant. Rictor subjected himself to it, sitting up straight in the chair as he felt his broken rib pulsing and falling back into place, which caused a hitch in his breath. Wherever her touch ghosted across his skin (he’d dressed down specifically for this mission, shedding the plate armour knowing that healing was to come), the soothing warmth followed. The light of Faram, he’d told himself as a child. The spell brought him back; it reminded him of his mother’s palm against his sweat-slick forehead as his fever dissipated. It meant the dissipation of pain, the cessation of troubles. It also, however, meant numbness. The pain slipped away and his awareness of his own body went with it, creaking pieces realigning themselves into working order, the metaphorical mortar resealing and the building repaired brick-by-brick. “No single sword is infallible, though I might like it to be,” he said vaguely, head throbbing with magic. “The Guild teaches us we’re all dependent. Which is why we need the kaplan to look after our bodies and souls. No fighter is complete without a mage by his side. That’s what they told me, at least.” He turned his hand over to watch the split skin sealing up, the bruise on his skin fading back to the usual white. Some of the scars remained, of course; she’d gotten better, but even white magic couldn’t fully eradicate the proof of battles fought and won and lost. It was a diagram of his career as a Blade. “No man is an island. Is that what they say?” Lex watched carefully as Rictor's body language began to shift, the healing steadily taking its intended effect. He sat straighter, seemed to carry himself better, and by the way he kept chattering on, she felt relieved in her ability to do this work adequately. The difficulty of course was not the mental and physical taxation of healing so many wounds at once, something she was never planning to admit even by pain of death, but that however much effort was employed in this particular way, these fighters would always run out the door and undo all the effort in a matter of moments. It was no less short of maddening if one was to think on it too long, and Lex wondered how many days would pass before Rictor found himself all broken to pieces once again. Not that she cared overmuch about it. A mage's work was simply never done. "Each is a piece of the continent, a part of the main," she said, as easily if reciting one of many daily prayers. Lex did pride herself on being well read, after all. That this one could claim at least some level of the same was some point in his favor perhaps. If she were inclined to give him such. "I think if you were invincible, not even your plethora of admirers would stomach the exponential growth of your ego," Lex said evenly, her hand on Rictor's shoulder now, her head tilted slightly as she looked him over. "Well?" His (nervous? were they nervous?) musings gave way to a deep chuckle at her insult – this was more like it. “It would be maddening,” Ric admitted. “As amazing as I am, even if invincible, the Oberst would fling me out for insufferable attitude alone. Pride cometh before, and all that.” The man flexed his hand, testing the range of movement, and took a deep breath and held it in his lungs. She hadn’t even argued before setting to the task at hand and doing the job that was asked of her. His eyes flickered to the angles of Lex’s arm, the almost-imperceptible weight of her hand on his shoulder, and then to a safer sight: one of the many stacks of paper she’d gathered around her scholarly nest. It could have been worse; this could have been a fresh injury, he could have tracked mud and gravedirt and blood all over her priceless scrolls. Ric let the breath out slowly, then pressed against the arc of his ribs beneath the cuirass. All seemed healed, as if it had never happened. Days of wincing and delicacy were scrubbed away like sand on the ebbing tide. “It’ll do,” he said, reining in the flattery like a dog on a leash. There wasn't much to be done but to take Rictor at his word and so Lex nodded in response, her hand leaving his shoulder and wandering across the table until it found something idle to fiddle with. Her discarded pen served well enough, and she glanced away from him and back to her books and scrolls. Looking downward, her long hair covering her expression, one almost would have seen a look of hesitation pass over her features. He really was absolutely bothersome, needlessly so. Now what chance did she have to regain the former pace of her study? Even when the oaf lumbered away elsewhere, the remnants of his disturbance would thus remain to taunt her in the library, leaving all her work a mess for no doubt the rest of the day. Even so, she debated on what she should say. Marking wayward lines on the edge of a scrap of paper, Lex fell back on the sure and simple, for it was much less trouble than anything else she could currently think to muster. "I should get back to my studies," she said distantly, as if her mind was already on something else. And a moment too late, Rictor realised that he was still clutching one of her books; self-conscious, he slid it back onto its precarious position amongst the pile. He’d snuck another glance at the tiny, cribbed handwriting and delicate illustrations dotting its pages, but the words flew right over his head and made little sense. For each minute Lex spent deciphering these texts, he’d likely need ten or twenty. “I’ll let you return to your playtime.” Ric stood, shoving the chair back as he went, and rose to his full height; it was back to normal then, the tables reversed and the dynamic shifted once more, the knight peering down at Almalexia’s averted cheek. Refrain from the wanton giving of offence, he remembered, and almost sighed. After all this effort to take the detour out of his way, avoid the commonplace healers, and instead ferret out the pint-sized blonde from the maze-like annexes of the cathedral's libraries, then he might as well – “Thank you.” The words were stiff and unnatural on his tongue, but he said them regardless, and if there was a wolfish grin delivered with them, then so be it. Rictor neatly slid the chair back under the table. “For indulging me. I’ll try to be better company next time, hm? Perhaps I could even repay the favour, escort you to the Necrohol.” The expression was missed, but the thank you was not, and Lex had to bite back the urge to simply rush him out. Saying thanks in so many words, she felt, was something of an unnecessary gesture but if there was payment in any regards, she felt that to be the least excessive. Good deeds done for others, and it was one of several things she could willingly agree with during her learning amongst the faithful, ought be done in the name of Faram and in honor of His Mercy--not for personal gain. Idealistic, out of step with the rest of the world, of this she didn't doubt, but Lex wanted to find the goodness in the hume world, and thus decided that she needed to start with herself. Yes, it was all, she reassured herself, some higher calling to do good work, and nothing to do personally with the looming barbarian making undue offers beside her. "If you require further evidence of my learning and improvement, I imagine something can be arranged," she agreed, looking up to him with her eyes shining full of false confidence. It was absolutely the worst possible idea of course, and absolutely nothing she could find in herself to refuse. It would have surely been easy to do so, but then, Lex was a constant advocate for creating excessive trouble for herself. How could she, after all, admit by way of inference that she was incapable when faced with the horrors of the Necrohol? That her battle experience when in comparison to Rictor was paltry at best? She recalled her memories of being carried out of the catacombs and had to look away again. "Faram grant you guidance on your path, Rictor," she said, regretting absolutely everything. Just another visit as per the norm then. “Showoff,” he said, but the censure was mild; it was hard to fall back on their usual lighthearted mockery when she’d done him a good turn. Rictor went still for a moment once her gaze left him, unsure of the proper etiquette – how did one bid farewell? Lex wasn’t a girl he’d shake hands with, and he reserved bows for fellow fighters – before he settled on delivering an ironic salute with a flip of the hand, and took his leave. Once he reached the doorway leading out from the library (a stone archway, decorated with carved dragons’ skulls), he paused. Then moved on, not looking back. |