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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Dec 26, 2023 22:50:44 GMT -5
Cyran hoped he might not have to do battle. Monsters were one thing, but he’d come here as the rogue, the scout, the diversion. He wasn’t certain he was ready for the weight of the sensation of a dagger in the palm of his hand, not when it brought back memories of a time he wielded his blades in opposition of a man he called a friend, and came out the victor. He’d hoped the threat of the Specter might ward them off… but even in their fear of him, their resolve and their battlehunger pushed them straight towards Sylvari instead.
To his surprise; her first action was to protect him.
He didn’t recognize the language she spoke but he understood the effect of the spell nonetheless.[1] Because of that, he did not flinch as she released a wave of dark energy through the air, one that cut an unfortunate Mud Worm straight in half. The scent of iron mixed with the stench of the bog like it belonged there. Cyran did not flinch away from the violence - he’d promised Sylvari he would not judge her for her methods.
Instead, he turned his attention towards the remaining two Mud Worms, who’d not even spared a thought for their brethren whose split corpse was bleeding out in the mud. They glared at Sylvari, their eyes red with the promise of murder. In their eyes she was everything they hated; mannered and civilized, her untamable urges clipped and polished.
As she raised her hammer, one of them lunged; procuring a rusted knuckle knife from seemingly nowhere, aiming it straight for an unguarded part of her armor -
Cyran reacted first.
Dark, spectral daggers of shadow manifested in the air at his command - the snap of his fingers, his panic at the prospect of her arm overriding his pacifism - and with a downward flick of his hands, the executioner’s axe, he sent the three daggers to pin the Mud Worm to the ground.[2] With careful precision not to nick anything important, one imbedded in the palm of his hand that bore the knuckle knives, the others striking his clothes. “Don’t you dare hurt her.” He uttered; a vow and a promise all at once.
Only then did Sylvari bring down her hammer and end their lives.
Cyran sighed and closed his eyes. He was not a religious person, nor did he ever believe that the gods had any positive effect on the world even if they were still alive. Perhaps if he was, he might have uttered a prayer in this moment. Instead, he said his own mental apologies, opened his mind, and took a step closer towards Sylvari. “Are you okay? They didn’t get you, did they?”
Misplaced concern, perhaps. She was far more powerful than the thugs from the swamp, and had proven so with her magical prowess. Nevertheless, old habits died hard. And Cyran was tired of killing the part of his heart that cared too much.
They didn’t have long to assess their wounds, though; as he felt the magic from his earlier spell snap back to him, like a rubber band pulled taught and released. He winced. They must have gotten lucky to take out the Shade. But that wasn’t the concerning part; no, it was what came next. The sound of an alarm. 1. Expanded Mind (Astral Soul I) 2. Ring of Daggers
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Dec 27, 2023 11:31:11 GMT -5
Sylvari blinked, once, twice, to clear the fiery tunnel that meting out justice had caused her vision to adapt to. She looked to Cyran, slowly realizing his own actions to safeguard her wellbeing. She gave him a smile, a little too wide in the adrenaline still coursing through her veins, revealing pointed fangs.
"I am quite fine, Cyran, dear. Thanks in no small part to your efforts. I apologize once again for subjecting you to such violence, but these souls have lost their way to the light. Returning them to the earth is the only way good can be achieved."
It was then that the justiciar noticed the drool coming from the corners of her lips: the close proximity of a powerful arcanist in Cyran, coupled with her own recent exertions bringing her dark thirst to the fore, unbidden. She frowned fiercely, wiping away the twin streams of saliva, and sighed. She would not insult Cyran's intelligence by trying to hide the odd occurrence at this point. The last thing she wanted was for him to harbor suspicions of her when there was still fighting to be done. She knew from firsthand experience how even seemingly miniscule doubts could create fatal hesitations in battle.
The vampiress lifted her veil unceremoniously, revealing the pure crimson of her eyes, and the extent of her curse. "I'm sorry for the deception, dear. Few are those who brook my kind's company willingly, and I only wish to help wherever my aid is needed. I understand if you wish to depart from me at the soonest interval. I-"
Sylvari's heartfelt apology and confession were cut short by the blaring of a new alarm. Cyran's distraction must have been dealt with. Oh well, time to create a few of my own. Exerting the necromantic power of her cursed heritage, Sylvari called up her servants: first her faithful undead dragonling Noe [Necromancer, Undead Servant], and then incanting another spell in the fell language she spoke before to summon a massive amalgamation of discarded flesh and bones [Summon Undead Hulk]. She looked to each of her creations in kind and gave a clipped, imperious command. "Deal with them."
The little skeletal dragonling suddenly sported purple-black lichlights in his eyes as he began bounding towards the sound of the alarm [Necromancer, Undying Frenzy], with his big friend in tow. Sylvari returned her gaze to Cyran and gave a weak smile. "At least this way you don't have to be part of it if you don't want to dear." The justiciar's tone was far from patronizing. It was reverential and kind, seeking to spare her companion of any more harm than was already wrought.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 5, 2024 11:11:21 GMT -5
Given all he’d seen of her today - her physical prowess, her almost ethereal aura, it came as no surprise for him to see pointed fangs in the edges of her smile. It did not put him on edge the way she perhaps thought it might. He’d seen all kinds in the business… hell, an old friend of his was of the vampyr, creatures of the night cursed with preternatural hunger and a connection to the dark. He kept his hand on Wraithsbane’s hilt at his side, not out of wariness but more instinct at this point.
“Do not worry about it.” He assured her with a small laugh, one that sounded only a bit strained at the edges. “I’ve no aversion to blood or violence. I’ve merely chosen to avoid inflicting it myself.” He could still remember the sensation of Zarius crumbling to ash under his fingertips, the cruel act of severing a life he dearly cared about. He could still remember the haunting numbness in that moment. “Those are your morals and brand of Justice. I have my own. And in this moment, we are united in a common goal, doing what we think is right. There is nothing wrong with that.”
She wiped at the saliva trailing from her mouth, then, as if annoyed at the lack of composure at her part. His eye widened as she lifted the veil over her eyes - revealing startling, almost luminescent, crimson. Most vampires Cyran had met were much the same, as if they’d imbibed so much blood that it had permeated into their very being. A mark that could never be erased. Perhaps she expected to be judged herself, for the nature of her existence.
Cyran merely shook his head. “No deception here. I’m not upset-“
Anything else he might have offered cut off by the sound of pandemonium in the camp. Cyran’s head whipped in the direction of the Mud Worm settlement, where his shade had fallen - Sylvari was already responding, weaving dark magic in the air that was not entirely dissimilar to his own, albeit with a darker note to the formulae in the air. Two undead creatures rose from the grave once more, darting forth at her command; them, faithful soldiers and chess pieces, and Sylvari their commander, their queen.
She turned back to Cyran, still hesitant, and Cyran couldn’t help but laugh that even now she was still concerned about him. He put a hand on her shoulder, reassuring. “I’m very appreciative that you care about my lines. You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve been around the block a few times.” He pursed his lips. “I’m worried in the pandemonium they might try to escort the Bogskippers out of here. If you provide the distraction, I’ll find them and secure them.” From Del’s first hand experience with them, Cyran knew the Mud Worms were tricky bastards - and they had the added advantage of knowing these lands. He couldn’t let them get away.
“Do what you must. I’ll meet up with you in a bit.”
He dashed away once more; once he reached the thick of the camp he skirted around it, keeping a wary eye on the destruction. The shadeling had ripped apart tents and carved deep gashes into the soft earth, but it hadn’t managed to kill everything. Most goblinoids and humans were screaming at one another in a primal language Cyran didn’t understand. Still no sign of any cages… the only place that they could be he couldn’t see was in that partially submerged stone building. He crept up to the wall and traced his fingers along the side, creating a small, dark door for him to step through.[1] Just as he expected - cages among cages, all containing multicolored, squat insects with chitinous wings. Some were sleeping, others buzzing at Cyran’s approach. It made stealth a little more difficult, but he just had to move quickly. Cyran picked up a cage and started moving back towards the door. Moving was… slow, due to the considerable weight of the cage, but he kept his balance, taking slow steps back outside. Hopefully Sylvari would be able to hold the attention of the men outside.
Just as well, because at that he felt the ground tremble. Something was happening with the men outside, and he had a feeling it wasn’t Sylvari’s minion. 1. Create Door
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Jan 8, 2024 10:58:49 GMT -5
Well, hells, that's probably not a good sign. Sylvari had been basking in the warmth of Cyran's acceptance, glad she had found another friend that accepted her cursed nature without incident, even after the elf's departure, when the ground began shaking. The justiciar had been at this job long enough to know that sudden ground shaking was seldom an earthquake and frequently the warning that presaged the emergence of a giant monster. As she quickly moved into the camp proper, she had never been so disheartened to be right.
In the center of the camp, there emerged a massive earth elemental, its normal rocky body taking on the malleable ground of this place to give it a dripping, roiling appearance. From the lingering smell of arcana [Chaos Touched], Sylvari was led to believe the creature was the result of a summoning spell, but such an impressive specimen was beyond the reach of mastering for all but the most powerful mages. It was either the result of that, or a magical artefact of uncommon power, both dangerous propositions to be in the hands of bandits. Sylvari would have loved to chase after the erstwhile summoner, but unfortunately, due to the camp's relative proximity to Lilicors village, she couldn't leave this creature uncontested for fear of it wreaking havoc on the populace. Sylvari gritted her teeth as she readied herself for a tough fight.
This notion was further solidified as her hulk moved forward to combat the creature, only for the elemental to bat it aside effortlessly, hurling the undead into a massive nearby tree and shattering it instantly. Noe, enraged by the sight of a comrade being destroyed, began attacking in earnest [Necromancer, Extended Frenzy], but his attacks seemed to have little effect on the massive creature. Damn, I hate being right.
The justiciar raised her hammer high, swirling with frost [Spell Blade, Arcane Soul] and light [Celestial, Angelic Light] as she charged in to deal with the creature.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 14, 2024 15:44:19 GMT -5
A golem. One of the Mud Worms had summoned an earthen construct, born from the salt of the mud and the stink of the bog, congealed into a solid mass that towered over the camp, mud still dripping from its body like a melting wax candle. The ex-assassin’s eyes scanned the area, but there was no sign of the caster maintaining the spell. Whoever had been here, they were long gone by now.
Hell, this was going to be a problem.
Sylvari charged forth in support of her undead minions, a blaze of righteous light that made Cyran’s eyes hurt. Would she be able to hold it off? She’d since proven her prowess so that Cyran didn’t immediately worry about her wellbeing, but parental instinct still forced him to hesitate.
Then the creature pounded its feet on the floor in a repeated motion, forcing another tremor through the ground. The very camp itself seemed to shake, unstable foundations finally revealing their weaknesses. Tents collapsed, the campfire extinguished itself. Cyran was barely able to keep on his feet thanks to his own grace.
The old stone foundation shuddered and heaved, cracks splintering the bricks that had not been built to withstand the shaking earth.
“The bogskippers.” Cyran breathed. Attention split between the old building and his companion, Cyran muttered under his breath in elvish - once more his shadow rose up to meet him, taking a substantially more familiar form. A near perfect mirror image of himself, blank-faced and awaiting instructions.[1] Cyran didn’t even wait a second before shouting, “Go! Finish the prime objective!"
It nodded, sprinting for the crumbling foundation, dashing through the spell he’d cast earlier. The concentration from holding so many spells made his head feel like it was about to split, but he could deal with the pain later. Sylvari came first.
It didn't matter to him that she'd revealed her undead nature to him - that it likely meant she was more indestructible than him, and that she could take a hit. Already he found that he cared about her. He needed no reason to want to protect her. It was as simple as that.
The motion from the shadowy figure caught the golem’s attention - with one hand, it raised its open palm and bent down to pick her up. With the second, it clenched its thick fingers into a fist, and with a great roar, its fist dissolving into a volley of mud aimed straight for the shadow.
Cyran arrived there first.[2]
Muddy skin froze and solidified under the touch of the blade of pure, razor-sharp ice that protruded from his arm.[3] The sudden, stinging chill of the cold turned the mud to slush where Cyran cut through it, halting the attack before it could hit the shadow-double. The golem yowled, something akin to pain flashing across its features as it staggered. Cyran hit his knees and rolled, skidding to a stop on the opposite side of Sylvari, blade of ice glinting in the dim light, single visible eye blazing with a cold defiance.
This was no person. He could fight with no reservations.
Pulling himself to his feet, Cyran charged, the crystalline blade a familiar weight in his arm. He didn’t need to fell the beast. He just needed to create as many openings for Sylvari as possible to come in swinging with the heavy hits. 1. Shadow Clone (Shadow Dancer IV) 2. Quicken 3. Razor Ice Tattoo
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Jan 16, 2024 10:54:09 GMT -5
Where unsteadier feet may have fallen under the tumultuous shockwaves of force that erupted from the center of camp from the golem's striking force, the justiciar's held steady as Sylvari braced herself against the rolling of the earth [Knight, Immovable Bastion]. By the time the vampiress was able to untuck from her defensive posture, her friend was there, dashing about the monster like a blur, conjuring blades of ice and striking the golem where it hurt.
Part of Sylvari's heart leapt for joy at the sight of Cyran standing beside her in what would certainly be a tough fight, but the pragmatic and compassionate sides of herself held reservations. For as capable as Cyran obviously was, he was still rather thin and completely unarmored. given the swift destruction of her undead champion, Sylvari did not have high hopes for her friend's wellbeing if the creature managed to get a solid hit on him.
Moreover, Sylvari's misguided understanding of her friend's combat reservations sent a pang of guilt through her heart. Cyran knows this fight will be difficult for me and is forestalling his vow of peace to aid me. I cannot let this sacrifice be in vain. Ideally, I'll make it unnecessary for him to fight too much. Sylvari thought of her people's redemption trials for one who had forsaken their vows, more often than not a fatal enterprise, and shivered. She did not know the strength to which Cyran held to his ideals, but at the very least it was a personal conviction: one she had caused him to break twice today. Not again. I won't keep dragging people down with me.
With an intimidating roar [Knight, Battle Cry], Sylvari charged into close combat with the monster beside her little dragonling: now in his bipedal combat form and scrabbling ferociously with strengthened arms. The justiciar did her utmost to take the brunt of combat responsibility onto herself, every devastating blow [Heavy Enchantment] hitting and echoing a second time in the unorthodox spinning style she had developed to smash with the head of her hammer and twirl to rebound back with the wicked claw on the other side of her weapon [Double Strike Enchantment]. Every landed blow created blinding explosions of icy blue and golden light, as the magics within her hammer and those granted by Sylvari's patron suffused her strikes for added power [Spell Blade, Arcane Soul] [Celestial, Angelic Light].
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 21, 2024 10:20:30 GMT -5
If there was one thing ingrained in Cyran’s subconscious, like returning to a home that had never belonged to him - it was battle. The weight of a knife in his hand, the adrenaline in his heart, a place where each second mattered. Despite his lack of armor, Cyran wasn’t impeded by having no defenses. In fact, he only seemed bolstered by it. He charged -
Ash on his tongue, the last dying breath of an empty vessel-
-Blinked away the unwanted memory, an unnecessary distraction. Compartmentalized. He couldn’t allow this - this weakness to ruin him. Pull yourself together, fool.
The sound of an embittered roar broke him out of his reverie. Sylvari, from the front, hoisted her weapon and drove it into the mud, again and again. Ice and holy magic sang in the air, its cold, uncaring radiance pouring into the creature and chipping away at it. The golem staggered backwards, just in time for Cyran to drive his ice-blade into the small of its back.[1] If it had been human, Cyran would have severed its spinal cord.
Sylvari’s wicked weapon and Cyran’s makeshift blade forced the golem to let out a great shudder, its very form heaving. Perhaps if it had been any other attack, the creature of ancient mud and clay would have been able to shrug it off; but it had the misfortune of running into two creatures of shade, as attuned to ice and darkness as they were. The sheer cold hardened its liquid exterior, making it all the easier for the two to hack away at. And for a moment, as it stilled, the two might have even been lulled into a false sense of security that they’d managed to defeat it.
But it was not a creature of flesh and blood and bone, and it would not fall as easily as any mortal man. It drew in a breath -
And mud exploded in all directions, pushing Cyran backwards. The blade of ice SNAPPED as he skidded back, the cold bladed part of his weapon lodged in the creature while the rest dissolved in a spray of frost. His only effective weapon, wrenched from him - but it freed Cyran up to catch himself from falling. He dug his hands into the dirt and skidded, the soil turning black as pitch under his touch, the shadows corrupting the earth itself… and allowing him to manipulate it. They coalesced into a solid form under the ex-assassin’s touch - a pair of fighting sticks, comfortable and hauntingly familiar in his grip as he righted himself and resumed the counterattack.[2] If one were to watch him, and the fluid ease of movements with which he wielded them, they might even make the assumption it was a different kind of dual wielding he was used to.
And these weren’t blades but they sure as hell could cause some kind of damage. Cyran lifted his arms and raised Spell Slicer and Cold Steel - raised the makeshift blunt weapons - which he drove against the golem’s leg in a familiar pattern, one that might have once made steel sing and sliced through the air itself. ONE-TWO-THREE, a whirlwind of slashing attacks at its lower body, anything to knock it off balance.[3]
So the saying went. The bigger they were, the harder they fell, and if Cyran could not kill the thing outright, he was determined to send it back to the ground from which it came. 1. Back Stab 2. Desert Blessing - Fighting Sticks 3. Cyran’s Haunting Blade
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Jan 22, 2024 12:51:52 GMT -5
"Cyran!" Sylvari's worried cry called after her friend who was sent flying back with the explosive force of the golem's attack, even as she planted her feet solidly to keep from meeting the same fate [Knight, Immovable Bastion]. Her fears proved to be unfounded, however, as her nimble friend flipped gracefully in the air, summoning yet more weapons to his hands as he dashed forward again in a blur.
In a dazzling flurry of blows, Cyran exceeded merely disabling the creature, instead fully smashing apart the golem's leg with such strength, speed, and precision that the muddy limb was eviscerated. As the golem began to fall for the loss of one of its stabilizing points, the vampiress was already there, ready to take advantage of gravity's aid. Having thrown aside her shield, Sylvari gripped her wicked weapon in two hands, holding it low to the ground. As the golem fell, Sylvari swung upward against the creature's chest, her massive unnatural strength creating a shockwave across its surface, blowing off a massive concentration of mud around its chest.
Grievously wounded, the creature sank to its one good knee, then to its side. The softly glowing elemental core was just visible and already rapidly being covered again with mud, as the creature's repair processes were kicking in. Unwilling to let her and Cyran's herculean efforts in bringing the creature down go to waste, Sylvari summoned her darkened talons around her fingers [Eldritch Claws], plunging her hand into the mire of creature's body, grabbing hold of what was essentially the monster's heart and crushing with all her might. Simultaneously, she summoned a bolt of black flame to her aggressive fist, further damaging the core in her desperate bid [Chaos Bolt].
The culmination of the pair's fearsome strikes proved to be too much and the light of the core died as mud began sloughing off the justiciar's armored hand. Sylvari wrenched her arm from the creature's chest and immediately went to Cyran.
"Cyran! Are you alright, darling?"
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 23, 2024 17:41:24 GMT -5
Someone was calling his name - Sylvari. Through the laser-focus of battle, he was distantly aware she was worried about him. Cyran could focus on that later. They were close - so close to taking this beast down. Cyran dug into its legs, tipping it forward - Sylvari took advantage of the opportunity, calling upon a font of dark magic and tearing its core out from its body, and smashing it to smithereens before the golem could so much as react.
With its arcane source destroyed, there was nothing left to keep it together. The golem let out a shuddering groan, its body no longer to maintain solid form. It began to melt, returning to its original state once more… leaving behind the two lone adventurers in the skeleton of the camp, haggard and covered in mud as they were.
Cyran was releasing his hold on the spell that had culminated in his makeshift weapon, brushing some dirt off his cloak in vain, when Sylvari returned to his side. Cyran offered a wane smile and a nod in the face of her worries. “I’m fine, I promise.” He hadn’t even opened up any of his wounds from the recent battle with Vulcadreus, miracle upon miracles. There were a few purpling bruises along his arm that he didn’t seem to notice he’d accrued during the battle, but otherwise, he was unharmed. The toll of overindulging in his umbramancy, on the other hand, was a different matter, and Cyran’s head felt rather fuzzy from the endeavor.
He shook the sensation away and assessed Sylvari for injuries. Focus.
“I’m fine.” He insisted. “Are you? I wasn’t expecting one of the Mud Worms to possess such an ability.” Whether a summons or an artifact, the appearance of the golem had rattled him. The camp was far stronger than he’d anticipated - stronger than his intel on the Mud Worms had suggested. This, the Bogskippers - they were amassing power, and the Marsh Flats was only growing more dangerous because of it. Logically, he had few attachments to this country, but the fact that all of this had been brewing under the surface left a bad taste in his mouth.
Worried, Cyran took a step forward, assessing her armor for any impurities or cracks or dents. Only when he was assured she’d sustained no lasting injuries did he let out a small, exhausted breath, and offer her a smile.
“But you fought it admirably. If it weren’t for you I wouldn’t have been able to provide support from behind. It was a pleasure doing battle by your side.” With the threat gone, some of his guard relaxed, every word of praise sincere. Though this isn’t how he’d hoped the venture would turn out, the battle had been taken care of with minimal casualties. And they were both alive, without serious injury, here to make it through another day.
That was all Cyran could ask for.
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Post by Sylvari Dawnsage on Jan 23, 2024 18:01:32 GMT -5
Sylvari barely heard the words that Cyran spoke. The vampiress' mouth was pressed into a thin line and her crimson eyes were focused intently on Cyran's arms were, the ugly splotches of bruising had begun to appear, the red orbs seeming primed to launch firebolts at the offending injuries.
Without asking for permission, fearing that her friend would, rightly, caution her against healing when she was drained from the combat, Sylvari laid gauntleted hands gently atop Cyran's arms and began an entreaty under her breath. "Lady Ellyria, hear your servant's fervent plea. Grant me the power of your radiant light to cleanse the wounds of the pure-hearted warrior beside me. May all infirmities of battle be driven from his body and he be given the peace of a justly earned rest."
At the justiciar's words, her hands began to radiate with a golden corona of gently pulsing light [Celestial, Holy Gifts (Massive Healing)]. Warmth seemed to suffuse the pair as waves of positive energy were poured into Cyran. Unless Sylvari sensed hidden wounds deeper than the mere bruises before her, the spell was frankly overkill, the pulsing light meant to restore someone on the brink of death. Nonetheless, the vampiress wielded the holy light with no sign of irony, chagrin, or any other negative sentiment.
Once the spell was finished, Sylvari slumped slightly in her kneeled position, twin rivers of drool beginning to run down the corners of her mouth. It was abundantly clear that the proud warrior had been running on fumes and poured the last of her reserves into restoring her friend's wellbeing.
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Post by Cyran Fenastra-Asiliari on Jan 25, 2024 21:40:20 GMT -5
Cyran barely had the chance to worry over Sylvari before the younger woman beat him to the punch. She pressed her hands against his arms, muttering a prayer under her breath. Not to a member of the pantheon, or any deity or elder being Cyran recognized. He never claimed to be the most devout of people. Yet, Sylvari was as pious as they came. Clearly, not just to her deity, but to her ideals, as well. She was the kind of person for whom conviction came easily for. Cyran wasn’t sure how much he agreed with the pure-hearted warrior sentiment, but it was nice of her to believe as such.
The retired assassin remained silent as warmth washed over him, gentle as moontide. It was not an entirely unfamiliar sensation, having been the subject of healing spells before. The aches and pains in his arms lessened as Sylvari’s administrations wove such a kind, gentle spell out of the formulae. The sensation filled him with memories of kinder times, gentler times. Of snuggling under blankets and reading bedtime stories to Marlow, of curling up by Del’s side while the world collapsed around them.
When Sylvari finished, she slumped to the floor, exhausted; with a start Cyran realized he wasn’t the only one who’d been running on fumes. Alarmed, he bent down to her level, placing a cold hand on her shoulder. He spotted the drool dribbling down the corners of her mouth, the exhaustion lingering in the crevices of her pale face. What did that mean? “Sylvari? Are you alright?” He murmured, bringing the back of his head to her forehead. Cold, as was to be expected of a vampire, but that suited him just fine. He, too, resided at the edge between life and death.
Frantic, he thought back to his experience with Caedes, the only other vampire he’d spent any time around. Caedes, he was fairly certain, consisted himself on blood. The origin of undeath was different for every vampire, but the hunger was always the same. The insatiable need to feed. And she’d driven herself to this point healing him of a few minor scrapes and bruises. The guilt that he’d caused this coiled in the back of his throat, leaving a sour taste on his tongue.
“Oh, dear…”
He glanced around the camp, spotting one of the firepits in the distance; the flames had been reduced to smoking hot coals, but the fire was constructed in a particular way around a ring of hot stone to keep it stable in the mud, enough so that he could stoke it once more. It would have to do for now. “Sylvari, come on, Poppet. Let’s get you to the camp. Let’s sit down.” He would urge her over to one of the partially-submerged logs that the Mud Worms had set up, assuming she was willing and still able to hear him. His hand never left her shoulder.
“You need… you need to eat.” He murmured. “What do you feed on? Take my blood, if that’s what you require.” He rolled up his sleeve, bearing the arm that had been healed only moments ago to Sylvari without an ounce of hesitation.
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