Calamis Loch

I just thought they might like to– What? Do I look like a man who knows about flowers?

Well, shit. I'll alert the troops.

Massive, even?

That bad, or that good?

Former conman, convert of Helm;
Swordsage, Gray Guard

» Fantasy RP, D&DRP, MVRP
» Story & Banter, Happy to plot.
» Primary setting: Faerûn
» Mun is 30+, Muse is late 20s
» Written with reference to 3.5e ruleset

𝙆𝙚𝙚𝙥 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙥𝙖𝙩𝙝 𝙄 𝙢𝙪𝙨𝙩 𝙬𝙖𝙡𝙠 𝙞𝙣 𝙮𝙤𝙪𝙧 𝙪𝙣𝙛𝙚𝙩𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙚𝙙 𝙜𝙖𝙯𝙚, 𝙇𝙤𝙧𝙙. 𝙄𝙛 𝙄 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙚𝙧𝙧, 𝙞𝙛 𝙄 𝙨𝙝𝙤𝙪𝙡𝙙 𝙛𝙖𝙡𝙡 𝙖𝙜𝙖𝙞𝙣, 𝙨𝙩𝙧𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙢𝙚 𝙙𝙤𝙬𝙣.

Her hands still splay across his chest when his eyes snap open, warmth lingering where her fervent prayer had dragged breath, strength, and soul from the Crystal Spire and back into his heart.

_______

The next time he sees Fiona's face, he's flat on his back on the cobblestone outside of that temple. She's framed in the same starlight that had budded when he left, and the smug visage of that damned red-robed wizard hovers above them.

And there's true regret that he can't give her more warning than that, but neither does he have time to linger. When she turns to question the man she'd saved, she catches only the tail of his Sideslip.

Back into the fading light of the Teziir streets...

"Couldn't be as bad as (that,) whatever ye think's happenin'. We'd have heard rumors..."

"If you'd heard rumors, it wouldn't be half as bad as it is. Just... ready your people. Send word to the other temples if you can spare anyone. We might have a week to stop what's coming."

Still he grasps her hand and presses a little more than a fair price to her palm. He's halfway to the infirmary door when he hears her voice, soft, shaken.

That's what it takes for her resolve to falter. He takes no pleasure in witnessing it, the sudden dread that surfaces in the crease of her brow, but her doesn't offer another opening to impede him, either. He stands at once, grimacing at how light he finds his coin purse.

Hard truths would have to come out.

"Look, priestess—"

"Fiona."

"...Fiona, then.
Teziir is in danger. If I stay, a great number of people will die." When she only offers a look of tired, unimpressed disbelief, he reluctantly tacks on, "...I'm here on behalf of the Gray Guard."

"Loch, then. Don't change a damned thing, yer settin' put 'til dawn at least."

Brushing past her clearly won't work; he'd mistaken her for a cleric, but she wore her armor like a warrior who had seen use for it. Her calling ruled out promise of coin. He truly doesn't have time to dally, here...

"Tired and (grateful.) I'll pay my tithes in thanks before I leave, but I need—"

He's baffled to find two strong, calloused hands pressing firmly on his shoulders when he tries to stand. He finally meets her gaze without the fog of poisonous delerium. "Ye (need) rest, Ser Loch—"

"Just Loch."

He swings his legs over the side of the healer's cot even as his muscles protest with the ache due a body pushed to its limits. She moves to stop him and he raises his hand, the one without pink, tender skin at his wrist or drying blood down its length, tacking on,

It's an answer she wanted, but the wrong question. He shakes his head sluggishly before she can ask.

"My name - Calamis Loch." It's even his real name, which unsettles the most overvigilant corners of his mind. "I'm... tired, obviously."

Exhausted. It doesn't matter. More to be done.

and his pain fades. The ache draws with it a building fire in his blood he hadn't recognize. No wonder his condition had deteriorated so quickly.

"Ah, got a bit of poison with it, did ye? How're ye feelin'?"

"Calamis." He unclenches his jaw from from punctured leather and pulls it from his mouth.

She begins to draw the blade free; the sensation of its drag sickens him, and he'd retch if his will failed him. Instead he shouts through the mouth guard and the sound drowns out the prayer of Healing that provides discomfort and relief in equal measure as his anatomy shifts and reforms

Before he can manage words, he finds a thick leather pad, hopefully clean, placed between his teeth. He knows well to brace himself, to breathe against the ache of even a gentle hand on the dagger's hilt, and to hold fast to consciousness if he can help it.

Time heals little. Time ensures the opportunity for a greater revenge.

||more to come, leaving work soon

This'll bite like a devil, sorry – and I'm told I have hands like the tundra, so, don't say I didn't warn ye."

He's grateful she doesn't push further for his response, though she clearly asked something...

His name. She'd asked his name.

The healer, then.

He lets himself relax as much as the pain will allow. His grey eyes fall shut. Her voice... he realizes she's been speaking, possibly to him, but he'd let the pain overwhelm him too much to hear it.

"...Well, I guess we'll be figurin' that out [after] we put your arm together.

Head of tight curls held back from her face by a simple band of cloth, calm and warm brown eyes, a surprisingly deep scar running the length of her right cheekbone. Heavy armor, but the hands she rubs together are free of their gauntlets, likely to allow better dexterity and examination.

He hardly notices he's laid back upon a stretcher until the face of a young woman swims into view above him.

Dark skin, not scaled as his usually appears. Rounded ears. Human, at least at first glance. At this point in his career, natural instinct alone catalogs even through his distorted thoughts.

Through the fog surrounding his thoughts, he realizes his blood has soaked through the bandage to drip upon the simple, footworn rugs of the entry hall.

Moving bodies become a flurry around him and worrying directives make his head pound.

Rows of sharklike teeth grit against the dizzying, building grind of metal on bone. As the door drifts shut against the cooling evening, the church's acolytes hurry forward to meet him.

"Healer," he forces out, supporting the arm once more. It suddenly feels like any other words would be a jumble.

Instead, he settles for the nearest temple, devoted to the Broken God, Ilmater. If nothing else, followers of a lifelong martyr proved proficient healers.

He gasps sharply when he raises the hand cradling his wounded wrist to push the temple open, but heedless of the pain, he stumbles through.