Roleplay

[size=4]This thread/story details events happening to (primarily) Wencel of Clan Endro. Our lore thread can be found [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/cc/2076202]here[/url], whereas the beginning of this particular tale can be found [url=http://www1.flightrising.com/forums/rp/2076800]here[/url].[/size] [br] [center][url=http://flightrising.com/main.php?dragon=29372923][img]https://68.media.tumblr.com/c8038b6f7ea80cc5175d03ee358d4591/tumblr_ojvujzx9GX1ua2iaio3_r1_400.png[/img][/url][/center] [size=4]Wencel's surroundings were dark and quiet when he, for the second time, rose to consciousness. Pearly moonlight cast a faint shaft of light into the far end of the infirmary, but none reached him on his heather-packed linens. Fara, the longneck who'd brought his rescue party, had taken up the pallet next over from his own for her evening repose. Her small form was curled in the center of it. Hardly any of it seemed real. He'd set off to deliver a few scrolls and a party invitation to one of their neighboring clans, primarily because Melanie was away. It wasn't a long trip, and he was quite proud of his calligraphy, evidenced within the invitation, and had wished to deliver it personally for that reason alone. Then, well, the snow had caved altogether suddenly in the center of a curve along a sheer embankment, and he'd stumbled in surprise and gotten caught in the cascade. Not an avalanche, by any stretch. A narrow slurry. Then, very [i]very[/i] suddenly, the edge of the chasm, and rolling right into it, the flash of his ice pick trailing away into the depths and himself, crashing and fluttering off the walls until he'd been able to scrape his way to a halt. Trying and failing to get out. Falling, buffeting his wings desperately.... And then [i]it[/i], looking back at him through the ice. Careless. He'd been careless. Worse, he'd nearly woken the creature. As though privy to his thoughts, his wing gave a sharp lance of pain. Setting his jaw, Wencel shifted to reach the protesting joint. Sticky with Rusalka's salves, it was swollen and hot. Further probing--an effort that made him dizzy and light-headed--told him that Piertrov had been correct in his assessment. Although not a doctor, Wencel was self-aware enough to realize, and quickly, that the joint no longer felt as it should, and indeed... barely resembled a joint at all. To that end, he couldn't move it (instead, what efforts he made resulted in tremors that only served to increase the pain). Drawn and shivering, Wencel settled back into his linens. His talons, now sticky, carried the smell of something astringent. [i]What's a Skydancer, having lost its ability to dance through the sky?[/i] Even that, somehow, failed to seem entirely real (and thus, didn't immediately strike him as something to grieve over, at least not yet). In fact, the only thing that did was the chill shock of gazing into the ice, and realizing something within it gazed back. Now, even in the infirmary, even with his eyes shut tight and a shake of his head, the vision refused to fade. [/size]

Piertrov's colleague Nickolias arrived in the early hours of the following morning. Wencel, feverish and shivering, found himself the subject of their careful ministrations. Before long, Rusalka joined the two physicians, quickly garnering Nickolias's approval over the salves she'd employed.

Wencel, for his part, did his best to remain awake. Time seemed to be moving strangely. He couldn't keep track of the quiet conversation occurring around him.

Due to this, several moments passed by before he realized Piertrov was patiently repeating his name. Wearily, he blinked the physician into focus.

"If you can, Nickolias and I would have you come with us into one of the surgeries. It's not far. Do you think you can make it?"

"I've settled your wing into a sling, dear," added Rusalka, moving into Wencel's line of sight.

Sincerely wondering if he could, Wencel nodded and worked at getting to his feet. To his surprise, and despite feeling as though he'd been filled with sand, he managed it. After a shivering moment, he found himself quickly aided by Rusalka.

Too weary to protest, he allowed her to shoulder him up and half-carry him into the chosen surgery chamber. Once there, she gently maneuvered him up over the exam table.

Here, a skylight--or rather, icelight--allowed the sun to shine through, clearly illuminating the marble shelves and neatly arrayed surgical instruments.

Growing nervous, Wencel turned and sought Piertrov's eyes. "I'm not, this isn't, you're not going to-"

Pausing, Piertrov faced Wencel's obvious concern. Sudden realization made his eyes widen. "Oh no, no, Nickolias has a different idea entirely. No, you won't be losing your wing, not if we can help it. We do, however, need to heal you up, and this is a truly stubborn wound."

Relieved, yet still very uncertain, Wencel glanced to his right and met Nickolias's gaze. "Do you know why it--that is--why my wound refuses to heal?"

The elderly Imperial, small for one of his kind, met Wencel's gaze openly. "Your encounter with the Emperor, no doubt. In order to gain strength, to enact their unique horror, they draw on all that lives. Could you tell me, precisely, how you came by your present wound?"

Wencel closed his eyes.

It was only a matter of time, he thought.

"I'd fallen..." Oh yes, I tripped and fell down the stairs.

The sudden thought, unexpected and altogether foolish, caused Wencel to burst into laughter.

Nickolias canted his head.

"He's feverish, are you sure we ought to tax-" began Rusalka, moving forward. Protectively, she reached out to console Wencel, yet halted when he fell silent and flinched away.

Trembling, staring at her talons, he continued in a whisper. "It grabbed me, my wing was in its grip." Furious at his obvious display of terror, he forced his brain to realize her talons were hardly the same as those of the creature deep within the ice, regardless of the overlay his mind was attempting to force. Its talons had been sharp and terrible, whilst Rusalka's were carefully filed and buffed into rounded ends. Rusalka, a healer, gentle, the one who'd first asked him to sing to the hatchlings with her, and so discovered his casual beguilement.

He watched hurt dart across her expression.

"Wencel?" Piertrov queried.

Before Wencel could answer, Rusalka directed her own attention to Piertrov. "Will this magic tax him?"

"No, I shouldn't expect so. Our light magic, Nickolias's and my own, should easily clear the taint from his wound. It was done by... as you know, an aberration that was once much like us."

"No," Rusalka replied, glancing down.

"Sorry?" Inquired Nickolias, from behind Wencel.

"No," she repeated. "Not like us. A curse of our blood, our kind and kin, but not like us."

"Now-" Nickolias began, only to be interrupted by Piertrov.

"Semantics. We've work to do. Let's get Wencel taken care of before we lose the light and if you'd like, I'll debate the matter over a private dinner with the two of you. Later," he added, firmly.

"Agreed," Nickolias stated, gathering bedding from a small chamber adjacent to the surgery. "For your head, Wencel. We may be about this for several hours, and while we'll hardly need to touch you, I would that you remain as still as you can. We'll pause, as well, so that you may eat and drink to keep up your strength."

Too weary to lodge a protest, Wencel accepted the items in good faith.

The interactions between the three Imperials stirred his interest, but weariness and fever kept him from pursuing the myriad philosophical and, as Piertrov had interjected, semantic details of their momentary disagreement.

Another time, he thought, unable to keep his eyes open or mind attentive. Trying only caused the vision of the creature's talons, their unerring grip on his wing grow in clarity. Distantly, it seemed the light in the room grew brighter, warmer, but--true to what they'd said--Nickolias and Piertrov hardly needed to touch him, and thus, with little to send jolts of pain up through his wing, Wencel succumbed to sleep.