Blood for the Fields: Day 1 - Aftermath

Mikin Wood: Shade Oak Forest


 * A small spring gurgles next to a cluster of shardwood and shade oak trees. Chitters can be heard trilling and capering about in the higher branches. Smaller animals rustle through the shrubbery.

Onto the scene, reining in rather quickly and unusually wild-eyed is one Ranger-Bard, looking not so much as if he's seen a ghost, but as if he's just been tap-dancing with a castle full of them. He takes all of about a second and a half to take in the scene before getting off his horse, grabbing a bulky leather-wrapped bundle from his saddlebags. "Don't... ask," he pants, heading toward Meian at once. "Just tell. Please." The request is undirected and rather distracted. People are bleeding, after all.

Milora barely lets Norran finish the last bit of his sentence; she seizes his shoulders and moves to draw their lips together in a short but /hard/ kiss that precedes her moving wordlessly away. There's relief in her face, and a number of other emotions; her arrow is restocked and her bow placed carefully over her shoulder once again as she goes to meet the Seamel. "Lyddmull," she pronounces his name almost breathlessly. "Would it suit you to remove her to Night's Edge while I ran to Light's Reach? You're probably better fit-"

Her words are quick and clipped; when Taran's voice reaches her ears, however, she spins around and raises her voice in his direction. "Wildlings. Three badly injured: Meian, Griedan, Wolfsbane. Can you do anything?" /Those/ words are sharp and distressed.

It takes Syton a moment of stunned blinking before he is collected enough to respond to Lyddmull. "Master Griedan? Aye, my Lord." He follows the Seamel's gaze back towards where Griedan rests. "Where is--" When he is finally able to make out the dark figure of the mason, Syton cuts off abruptly and darts over towards Griedan.

Meian lolls bonelessly in Lyddmull's arms as she's borne towards Night's Edge, doing little beyond bleeding on him, not even protesting the movement as it shifts the arrow that so neatly pierced her all the way through. What little can be seen of her skin that's unstained is chalk-white, unnatural even for the little mage.

Griedan is lying on the forest floor in a vast pool of blood. Hsi breath comes in very shallow gasps now, and not through his mouth but a bloody cut across his throat. The large mason is entirely unresponsive as the last of his life leaks out messily all over the fallen leaves and layer of already reddened duff.

Wolfsbane's attention is fixed entirely on Meian at the moment, his face a mix of pain and concentration as he holds his cloak against her chest, around the arrow. "Light in the darkness, Mistress," he whispers to her, before she's taken away by Lyddmull. The ranger slumps forward again, clinging to the tree, his forehead resting against the bark as he closes his eyes, breathing shakily.

Syton falls to his knees at Griedan's side, looking dismayed to have landed in more blood than dirt. "Master Griedan!" he says sharply, trying to assess the man's wound quickly, feeling with his hands what his eyes can't make out in the darkness. His hands find the wound on Griedan's neck without much trouble. "Help!" he bellows, back towards the others, then turns quickly back to the bleeding man beside him. "Master Griedan," he says urgently, "can you hear me? Can you speak? Was this a blade or a claw?"

It is second or two before Lyddmull is able to tear moistening eyes from the sight of his dead mare. He looks to both Milora and Taran who seem to have approached him without his notice. "Thank you, Lady Arbiter," he says gratefully to Milora, inclining his head tightly before he turns to Taran. "If you can help her, Master Songbird," he says, tilting his head towards Meian, "Master Wolfsbane is also hurt and I believe that Master Temple will need some assistance in the conveyance of Master Griedan."

Norran blinks, merely staring blankly at Milora as she departs and runs off to help. Shaking his head quickly, Norran turns again to make his way toward the scene, returning Retribution to its' scabbard as he glances about. "Always a shame to lose good horses," laments the young nobleman with a frown, looking to those gathered here. "I can carry if I must if there's anyone needed to be carried," volunteers Norran, reaching to his neck to unclasp the silk cloak now somewhat mired with wildling blood, folding it carefully infront of him as he awaits an answer.

Taran drops by Meian first, opening up his kit on the forest floor. "We do what we can, and I wish it was more than this," he says shortly. Titles, apparently, can just go hang for now. "Bring them to me - carefully. Let me do what I can before they're moved farther - or point me at them." Hands work quickly, getting out bandages. "Seamel, the arrow - if your hands are steady, pull it forth. Unless it's barbed, does anyone know?"

Kyshen leads Coda in to the forest, humming quietly to himself. He pauses when Coda whinnies softly, tugging backwards. He looks at the horse, squinting a bit, though his eyes are accustomed to the dark, and blinks around, not quite sure what he's seeing, exactly...

Griedan does not respond at all to Syton, aside from the faintest, rattling breath sucked through that hole in his throat. The eyes are completely sightless as they stare up into the sky through the canopy, their normally soft doe-brown colour now appearing glassy and lifeless.

"The stream was beautiful," mutters Wolfsbane to the tree, his gloved fingers pulling at the bark firmly as he begins to attempt to actually stand. "Horses, not so much. You'd be laughing at me now, wouldn't you?" Of course, it's only by grace of the tree that he manages to slowly begin drawing himself up, teeth sinking into his bottom lip from the pain and effort of not crying out.

Lyddmull Seamel shakes his head quickly as he lowers himself and Meian to the ground again. "I attempted to pull the arrow from the back of Master Wolfsbane, but I only caused him more pain," he says quickly. As he releases Meian to the care of the bard, he turns to Norran. He hesitates for a moment before he speaks to the Duke. "Your Grace, I had intended to go help Master Wolfsbane, if you could assist the others," he says, his voice still strained. Without waiting for an answer, he goes back towards Vhramis, jogging quickly now that he is unhampered by the slight burden of the young mage.

"Shades! Someone, GET BACK HERE NOW!" Syton's voice isn't just a yell now, it's a scream--equal parts desperation and rage. He turns his attention back to Griedan urgently. "Stay with me, Master," he mutters. He cups his hands over Griedan's neck, holding it firmly while trying not to crush what's left of the mason's windpipe.

"Barbed, then," Taran nods distractedly, and retrieves what looks to be a rather wickedly sharp knife from his kit - only to turn at Syton's scream. "Shades," he groans. Looks down, then at Lyddmull. "Make sure the injured area is not pulled. Let the arrow hold back the bleeding." Quickly gathering the kit up, knife still in hand, he heads over toward the source of the scream.

Deciding the others are taken care off, Norran makes his way toward the yell. "This one, hm?" he asks when he notes Griedan, stopping a few feet away as he looks toward Taran. "Do you intend to use your wizardry on him, or should I settle him on your horse so you can take him to Light's Reach?"

Inch by painful inch, Wolfsbane works himself into a standing position, his weight still mostly on the tree before him. He finally stands, though slightly hunched from his wound, and manages a shaky smile at the tree, before he tilts his head down to notice his bow laying there on the ground. With a sound half frustrated groan and incredulous laugh, he begins working himself down once again, attempting to lower himself enough to grasp it up.

Although Milora's face turns pale and her lips quiver when Syton Temple's voice moves over her, the woman moves through a cringe. Lyddmull is addressed, as well as Norran and anyone else who attends to her raised voice: "Norran, please remain on your guard in case there are more. Use whatever material you can tear to help stop the bleeding; /be gentle/. I will bring help here - Lyddmull! I will bring help here! Better not to move them to Night's Edge, do you think?" Her eyebrows are furrowed; her body language betrays impatience and concern.

"I have no 'wizardry'," and the word is almost spat, "that can heal wounds," Taran snaps, dropping down at Griedan's side. "Blood, too much blood." Apparently talking to other people has gone the way of titles and rank; the bard can only try desperately to staunch Griedan's bleeding. "He will need blood - or a Sunkissed's blessing, I have no power - Light just let me stop the *bleeding* -"

Syton's hands join Taran's in trying to hold back the blood oozing from Griedan's throat. "Let's just stop the bleeding, okay?" he says, forcing calm into his voice. "Black Wildlings. Light save me. Poison would have killed him by now if it was a claw."

Hearing himself addressed, the Seamel turns towards Milora, biting his lip for a moment. "I am not sure," he calls back across the clearing. "I shall keep watch on the road and direct whomever comes to the place where the wounded have been brought," he adds before turning to go to

Vhramis' side. "I will get it," he says gently, scooping up the glowing bow from the ground, leaving his own sword as he attempts to get underneath the Ranger's arm to help him up. "Pleasant night, is it not?" he asks lightly, despite being a bit short on breath now.

“Then you're useless," snaps Norran in reply to Taran, brow arching at him before shaking his head and looking to Syton. "Milora's right. Master Temple, tear at whatever you can and bandage his throat. I'll take him to Light's Reach. I'd suggest you hurry," continues Norran, frowning faintly as he tosses his cloak back over his shoulders.

"My thanks," Wolfsbane replies to Lyddmull as he watches the Seamel lift the weapon. He holds his hand out for it, releasing the tree long enough to do so. "It's... a bit warm. Good night for a swim," he murmurs in response, glad to just remain still for the moment, still grasping the tree. "And I'm thirsty."

Taran looks down into Griedan's face briefly. "Pray," he tells the man. "It can't hurt." Ignoring the Duke, he takes advantage of Temple's hands to get bandages from his kit, and a jar of ...something very green and pasty looking. "Hold, there. I'll wrap this around, should help hold the wound closed..."

Lyddmull presses the bow into Vhramis' hand as he begins to move away from said tree, his arm extending behind the Ranger's back to help support him. "Come then," he replies, "Let us see about getting you a drink." He begins to move towards where Meian now lays, his eyes widening as he finds her abandoned again. He bites his lip tightly as he continues to make his slow way forward unless Vhramis should make any significant protest.

"Thank you, Lyddmull. You are a good man." Milora tosses her head in Norran's direction, and sighs. "Norran Lomasa, I love you. Try not to be an incorrigible ass," she calls out before moving toward the west as fast as her little leather-bound feet can carry her, loose bits of hair streaming behind her and armour jingling. Juriatale is abandoned in the grass.

Griedan is in absolutely no condition to resist any activity with any sort of weird paste at all, so thus, it's likely quite easy to apply said poultice. The continued faltering breathing is the only indication that his limp form has anything left in it at all.

Meian lies silently, certainly not calling any attention to herself- it's an easy explanation for any abandonment- as calm and white as a peaceful sleeper if not for the coat of red she's wearing to brighten her black. She also lies unmoving, sprawled out in the shadows of the night.

''There's always that quiet after the storm. Aside from the worried intones of those attempting to save lives, and the whimpers and groans of those wounded and dying alike, the depths of the night-cloaked Mikin Wood is quiet as one might expect it to be under normal circumstances. A slight breeze caresses the otherwise warm night, the leave rustle, branches sway, and the dark and moonless sky - a portent of Shadow strength - looks on with indifference. Abruptly, that silence is broken, and the darkness is cast aside by a point of electric blue light that hovers roughly seven feet above the ground near to where the aftermath of the Wildling ambush is located. The light circles in a clockwise direction, drawing a hollow hoop of that same light in the air. From that ring of blue, five evenly-spaced tendrils flow from the perimeter of the band to converge at the point directly in the middle of the ring itself, forming a wheel of blue light. This is a manifestation of something quite rare indeed...''

Wolfsbane is fairly compliant to Lyddmull's attempts to guide him, the ranger putting some of his weight on the Seamel, but more on the seraphite bow he holds, using it to help support him by pressing it against the ground. His face is fixed with a permenant grimace as he moves slowly along, eyes locking on Meian as well laying in the grass. "Go to her," he urges finally. "I've had worse than this. I'm feeling better already..." His steps slow to a halt at that sudden growing light circling about them, and then closing in on the middle.

"Stay alive, Master Griedan," Syton advises intelligently. His bloodsoaked hand try to apply pressue wherever Taran isn't working. "Never an Archon around when you need one..." he mutters. The young Freelander notices a glimmer a glimmer from the light show, and he turns his head around to look, hands still pressed against Griedan's wound.

Kyshen's normally wide eyes go even wider as he watches the light, and puts a hand on Coda's nose to keep her from starting. He doesn't say anything, just watches it. "...what is it?" he murmurs quietly to the horse, as if though she could answer.

"I have left enough people to bleed today," the Seamel growls quietly to the Ranger, "I am certainl..." his voice trails off, his mouth dropping open in shock as he looks around at the blue light that begins to circle. As the tendrils meet, he looks up, closing his mouth as he gazes on the broad wheel hovering above his head.

"Strange," notes Norran, stepping away from the few here as he carries a curious expression toward the light. Wandering slowly, he keeps his eyes on the light as he walks to recover Milora's staff.

Taran wraps the paste-covered bandage around Griedan's throat, holding the folds of skin closed with his fingers as he does so. He then gets to his feet, taking himself and his bag back to Meian. Light shows can apparently go the way of everything else that isn't dying tonight; without comment he sinks down at Meian's side, fingers working carefully to remove the arrow so that the bleeding can be stopped.

The strange light is reflected in the distant stare of Griedan's unseeing eyes. Although it is probably no particular effort of his own, the mason does at least obey Syton's pleas. He is incapable of responding to the bizarre manifestation of power before him as he continues to slip slowly away despite the primitive, desperate measures of Taran before he departs to care for another.

''A glowing, ethereal violet form emerges from the shadow-swirled portal, quickly gaining form and substance to become an older man in a flowing white cloak, his expression grave, the light show throwing shadows across his face like the ragged ripples parting over a stream-swept stone. He slowly flitters down as the portal subsides, surveying the group. "Which one is most injured?" he booms as one foot sets down on the forest floor, then the other.''

Vhramis is left staring at the figure that emerges, Lyddmull seemingly forgotten at his side. The question receives a blink, and the ranger points generally towards where Griedan lay, being tended

"This one," Syton replies quickly, releasing his hands from Griedan's throat as Taran takes over. He stands and takes a step back from the Marked bard and the Sunkissed mason, blood dripping freely from his hands and down his legs.

If Lyddmull's jaw were not firmly attached to his face, it would be on the floor by now. Silence seems to have conquered the often mouthy Seamel for the time being, not even leaving him with the presence of mind to point.

Meian doesn't seem to register any of Taran's work, harm far from her mind- at least, judging by her completely still form, unreactive to whatever pokings and proddings he engages in. Working on her is a plenty messy proposition, blood coating the arrow shaft until it's slippery.

"Hm," muses Norran, watching the man that emerges with distinct interest as he picks up the staff and rests it against his shoulder "Well! These are some odds, aren't they? Quite the wager it would've if I knew this would happen," speaks the Duke, mostly to himself, as he watches the scene intently.

Uriel bobs his head to Taran, pulling several tiny bags of fresh herbs from out of his pouch, along with a linen poultice that seems to have been soaked with a yellowish-green substance, stepping quickly to make his way to Griedan, kneeling down. "How deep is it?" he asks Temple. "Did he whistle or gurgle when this was open?"

"Gurgle," Syton answers promptly. He looks down to his hands after a moment, then begins to wipe them on his leather jerkin. "He was breathing out of the wound until Master Taran and I got to him." He opens his mouth to add something else, but in the end, he just falls silent.

"Hrm... he looks a bit familiar. Didn't I meet him in a tavern, once? My, that happens far too often. Oh well," admits Norran with a deep sigh, idly tapping the elaborate staff against his shoulder. "I don't see why Milora insists on using this instead of a sword. Better off with a halberd."

Now that the newcomer seems somewhat less out of place, the Seamel suddenly realizes that he should be moving. He does so, trying to guide Vhramis along with him to where Taran is still working on Meian. A glance slides over towards Norran and the young nobleman bristles a bit but keeps silent.

Wolfsbane remains watching the show, until Lyddmull begins to move him again. He inches forward at the urging, focus turning upon Meian again.

Varal steps out of the darkness of the woods and towards the group. He stops a moment, using several leaves to clean wildling blood from his blade in what is very clearly an afterthought. He slides his sword back into his baldric as he clears his throat, making sure he doesn't surprise the assembled group. Squinting in the darkness, he frowns at the assembled prone figures.

"I circled us a couple of times. Good news is the two of them were it. We *should* be fine for the time being, but I'm no ranger." His mouth quirks a moment, fighting a smirk. A frown quickly returns to his mouth, sadness glowing in his dark eyes. "They going to make it?"

The throat wound in question is rather deep, having only just missed the jugular vein, but it has indeed bled profusely. In the front, it goes all the way through. Perhaps the saving grace here is the fact that it is a clean cut, as though from a blade rather than the jagged tear that a claw would likely inflict.

Taran nods - but in removing the arrow, the bard now has his hands full staunching the bleeding. This is apparently less out of his field than gaping neck holes, however, and his hands reach quickly for bandages and salves. "Please sit," he says quietly, rather distracted and distant now. "Once she is not bleeding I will help you; he can heal her far better than I now that the arrow is out."

The bleeding that does pour from the wound is thankfully somewhat sluggish- but perhaps only because so much has already been lost. Greyish pallor discolors Meian's skin now, a rather unappealing shade, some of the hair that tumbles down over her shoulders already clotting together and to the pierced, sticky leather.

Uriel's eyebrows lower, his lips pursing. "I'll just do more damage opening it up again. Shades. *Shades*," he says, deft fingers pressing at the man's neck in various spots with a fine touch. He shakes his head. "You're going to need better tools than I have in this little pouch," he mutters quietly to Griedan. "Let's get him to his kind. Has Light's Reach been notified? They have a very good facility there," he booms to Syton.

Syton frowns to Uriel and shrugs. "The Lady Arbiter ran off," he says, flicking his head back towards the road, "but I don't know how far she's gotten or how long it will take." He takes a little step forward. "But if you think we can get him to the Hall of Healing..."

"Is he ready to be moved, yet? Just tell me where to toss him," offers Norran once again with a slight arch of his brow, walking back over toward those surrounding Griedan as he gestures toward the horses that are still alive.

Lowering himself and Vhramis to the ground as he arrives near Taran and Meian, the Seamel looks over at the bards, his lips pressed together in concern. "Have a seat, Master Wolfsbane," he says, "I shall see about getting you a drink." He moves across the clearing towards the body of Cleo, his face tightening further as he kneels down beside the fallen animal. As he goes through his saddlebags, he gently strokes the creature’s blood-streaked mane, his head bowed sorrowfully.

Varal's eyes narrow as he's ignored by the assembled individuals. He crosses his arms, but doesn't speak. Instead, he walks towards Lyddmull, remembering his horse now that he's taken care of his safety. Spotting the animal dead, he spits to the side and snarls.

Vhramis grimaces at the prospect of sitting, shaking his head quickly. "I'll just stand for now. I don't want to bend," he explains, leaning on his bow some more as Lydmull move away. He watches the Seamel sympathetically, before shaking his head and sighing.

Taran applies poultices to Meian's wound, stopping the bleeding as best he can. Then he undoes his cloak to fold up and put under her feet, so she lies levelly on the ground. "Until you can be moved," he says quietly to her. Frowning at the pallor, he takes a moment to examine her more carefully, looking for signs of poisoning.

Uriel's eyes go out of focus as he seems to scan Griedan's head and neck. He blinks, looking up at Norran. "That won't be necessary. Too much bumping and he will most certainly die. I can transport him in this position to the edge of Light's Reach, with a minimum of movement. I'll be back for the others. Just stand back, please." He moves a hand to cradle Griedan's head as he kneels very low, his other hand placed firmly on the man's stomach. A buzzing noise begins to emanate from the two figures.

There appear to be no signs of poisoning- just Meian's own natural pallor combined with the effects of sizable blood loss. She offers no reply to Taran's comment but those faint vital signs- a little breath, a weak pulse- that she's shown as her only indication of life for some time.

If the fallen and rather large stone mason notices the buzzing, he gives no indication. His flesh would be quite cold to Uriel's touch, as he's lost a massive amount of blood by now. He continues to fade little by little, but at least hope does exist for him, as slim as it might be.

Syton exhales softly, both a sound of relief and exhaustion, and steps back from Uriel. His eyes tilt upwards oddly enough, watching the dark tangle of branches over Meian's head. He takes a deep breath, expressionless, and idly wipes more of the blood from his hands.

Taran is quick enough to recruit him. "Watch her," he says to Temple quietly, indicating Meian. "Until Faeyd can take her. I think I've done all I can here." He turns to Vhramis. "Would you like some help with that arrow?"

Norran takes his steps back, glancing off around the clearing. "Well, that settles that. I should report this intrusion to the Tribunal. Fortunately for me, they're not too far away," notes Norran to himself, shaking his head slowly as he begins to walk off toward the west.

''Return to Season 6 (2007)