Grey Upon Brick

[sweetwilliam]

OOC: Gosh, how long has it been since the last time I've written a single IC post? Forgive the weak start.

IC: Not dirt, mud, or pebble. No bridges, meadow lanes, or spiraling stairs. Nor towering forests or wayside weeds. A street. So it was, a street paved of brick. The familiarity of digging elbows, the senseless shuffle of feet, and the shoulders constantly bumping past you - which, the more you are assaulted by unknown assailants, the more one may begin to suspect some purposelessly used themselves as a sort of broad punishment paddles - made the street alive and busy, yet livid and suffocating. But, this was in the daytime. Currently, the late afternoon makes way for the night with the stark, twilight orange light blurring the scene, morphed into grey. The streets had begun to empty, like the debris in the river flourishing to the tributaries elsewhere. So, does the flee of the day make it lonely, dead, yet free? Sometimes in the stream, debris builds up in pools.

Whittaker had took to the Temarra streets. A solitary figure. A peculiar figure. A human figure. His grey robes, as if reluctantly, made ripples in command to the “slowly but surely” wind’s approach. In the background of the beat, a silent, metallic clink could be heard. The light sack in his hand, rather coarse and unappealing to the touch, gave reason to the journey back the eastern side of Temarra. He would take a quick glance inside, double-check what was necessary, mentally mark the contents, and turn his brown eyes ahead. The eyes glanced again, but to his surroundings. Others, the built up debris, were present. Other races - daemons, elves, dwarfs, fauns, wizards - others alike or not, walking through the street or mixed in muffled conversation. In retort, they too took a curious glance at this human, possibly out of the edge of social expectations. Whittaker could almost grimace or remark through a quizzical brow, “Should that make me upset? Never straightforward, are we? Ahh…” Eventually, he had turned elsewhere.

Guards began to make way to their posts and, some rather drowsily or pensively, fulfill their nightly function then report to the regime. These days, they became less like wall ornaments to this passerby. Some guards circled the streets and others dutifully stood their very unmoving ground. Between the guards and this human, glances juggled about; however, this was done placidly, almost mutually.

The clink of his gait took a small turn and this marked almost one-fourth of the journey over. A nearby tavern ahead, the silence began to disperse. Glasses clacked and voices crackled. A brusque shuffle…and there, came a one of those glasses shooting through the air. Whittaker took the crash to his shoulder instead of bothering a with a narrow escape. “Ow…” said he, rather bluntly in reaction. Casually, he dusted the shards of glass, which had messily scattered by his feet, then wiped off - well, what may have been alcohol. He decided to examine his shoulder later even though, naturally, glass had marred through the grey cloth. Something was bound to erupt in the tavern and Whittaker frowned at the thought of staying for the explosion. His boots took to leave. Soon enough, those pools in the stream, the leftovers of the crowd, began to show themselves around him - curious. Somehow, leaving this street may prove difficult. Whittaker preferred the vague emptiness of bricks before.

[Ayvajin]

There was a loud crash of shattering glass that spilled upon the street. Gasps and cries of alarm came from the crowd on the street as they quickly dispersed from whatever had just came out of the window. They had good reason for their quick movements as well.

Upon the street crawled a human boy who seemed to be clearly possessed by some demon. His eyes were ablaze in a vivid red. He growled and bared his teeth to anyone who was anywhere close to him. The only clothing upon his body was a pair of brown pants that had tears and blood stains on them. Around his wrists and ankles were rope as if he had been tied up and had broken loose. His body was marred with scratches that seemed to be self inflicted. He even had patches of missing brown hair upon his head. The boy crawled around with violent twitches, saliva rolling out from his lips.

There was movement from the window he had obviously jumped out of. A woman appeared behind the broken window frame. She stepped up on the ledge and exited the house with a few quick movements. She landed upon the street a few feet away from the boy.

The woman was Ayvajin, a necromancer of prestige. She was known for her power in necromancy and her ability in exorcisms. She had gone to rid this boy of the demon who had possessed him, but, as was apparent now, the demon was not going down without a serious fight. The boy had been able to break through the rope he had been bounded by, and now he was in the street not just trying to attack the necromancer but everyone else who was around.

Ayvajin stood there for a moment, her mind working quickly. The clothes that she wore were more for ceremonial purpose, nothing to be caught in the cold with. A white cloth wrapped tightly around her chest. In the center of the cloth was a blue gem with two long chains of blue gems that went down to her hips and moved back up to fasten in the back of the cloth. She also wore a white skirt that had been ripped shorter due to being scratched by the boy (there were deep gashes in her legs that she was ignoring at the moment). Upon her feet were white sandals that laced up her legs. Her wrists, neck, and ears were adorned with blue gem jewelry. Her long black hair was pulled back in a tight braid.

The necromancer advanced, a white ceremonial staff in her right hand. Her eyes stayed focused on the possessed boy. He turned on her quickly and charged forward. With a quick movement, Ayvajin brought her staff up, hitting the boy back with a great amount of force that he tumbled to the side.

[sweetwilliam]

Such tenacity! Glass shards still clung to his robe, daring and jagged. With one last swat of the hand he would be free from them. But at the sweep of those rugged tips, as if through the maestro’s cue, came another crash rebounding the street, trumpets sounded and gasped. Whittaker quickly took to the side, but not so far as to mingle within the crowd of bystanders filling the sidelines. His eyes darted to the inner street and there was a boy sprawled across the undeserving brick, marred behind coarse rags, mangled with ropes, and maimed with blood. Hearing the clenched growl rushing between his teeth, Whittaker could feel that this boy was interlocked within a desperate situation. “A demon, perhaps…it possessed a boy?” Moments later, a women followed after, admitted through a grand entrance from the window a few feet away. “And a…magic user? Necromancer…,” suggested the ceremonial attire. And so forth, Whittaker mused. The thoughts possibly only jotted themselves mentally for a few seconds, but nonetheless, his mind was of such of absence that it could, logically explained or not, think. And unique thoughts, of observing, regret, perhaps amusing, they were.

Whichever the thought, Whittaker would have taken his leave with not part in this. At the turn of his footing, however, he stopped. This crowd, so fascinated and curious creatures alike - look at the mouths, in unison, they become agape breathing the scene about to unfurl - had created an ample barrier without realizing it. Whittaker attempted to push through, sometimes pushed back. But like stone soldiers they held their ground to maintain the spectacle in their sight. Hence, the unfortunate man was stuck.

Suddenly, he brought his attention to the inner circle, the women and demon, to see the possessed come to charge at her. What caught his eye next was the deft whip of her staff to her hand. Whittaker watched as the boy is plunged backwards, towards him. With an anticipated sidestep, he dodged, but at its own expense. Alarmed to find his hand unexpectedly empty, he turned around. The boy had snag onto his bag, down they came to the ground; and there it was, the contents spilled about - ingredients for medicinal and white magic purposes, many common and others not. Surrounded by these curious items, it was wondered if they had effect the demon under all of its convulsing and salivation.

Whittaker looked on (rather upset to see his work dashed on the street). Suddenly, the demon snapped its head to the side. Their eyes met - its eyes were ablaze, livid with red and his a dullish and furrowed brown. Whittaker took a cautious step back, hearing the familiar and distinctive clink by his ear. Oh, how he would reach for it then, let it be an extension of his being -- but not here. He watched, allowing the demon to charge at him like an animal that had been whipped and now it rebels. And it attacked furiously, through its claws, teeth and growl. This unstoppable creature ravaged at his line of defense. The crowd let out a terrible gasp. A beast, indeed -- to which, Whittaker could responded appropriately. Through the reign of the demon’s assault, as if hands speak, his, like talons, strangled the demon’s neck. The demon stopped, dismay bleeding through its red eyes. And with the other, his unlawful left, struck across its face. Then it lashed under its jaw. Once again, it spiraled through the air. The crowd gasped again. Then down he crashed, skidding across the unfeeling brick.

Whittaker’s force was, like always, excessive. The boy would have to suffer a broken jaw if he gets through this. His brown eyes, which flashed into an alarming russet shade, had reset to its usual listless self seeing that the demon would take time to recover. To the women, who was a simple few feet away, he said, “Now, maybe you can finish what you started,” and picked up a few ingredients that fell on the street.

Just then, his hands began to weave through the air. Abiding to his tips was a white light and that light left behind a floating trail. He weaved it into complicated structures, this way and that, perhaps whispered a thing or two. In the midst of his work, he monotonously continued, “If needed, these will be provided -- after you‘re done.” They were basic healing weaves for preemptive use and could mend like stitches, but perhaps more effectively. Whittaker decided not to use them now. This process was easy, but long, therefore, he wouldn’t want to weave more than necessary, especially if they were to be repeatedly injured. And he figured that the women would live despite such deep, bloodied cuts delved in her leg and the boy who had to suffer his brutish, unforgiving blow. Whittaker indifferently shrugged.

[Ayvajin]

Ayvajin could not help but feel a bit dismayed. The last thing she wanted was the boy getting hurt. Truly, nothing but banishing the demon would hurt the being inside. All of the exterior damage was only hurting the boy. Luckily, there were ways of healing the boy which the necromancer would have to do after she had finished exorcising the demon within the child.

The necromancer took a step over to the fallen boy and knelt down beside him. The boy seemed to be in a daze, but the demon inside of him was still active. His limbs started to twitch violently. His hands slowly started to rise in a way that would suggest that he was about to try and strangle Ayvajin. The necromancer simply put down her staff and used her left hand to take a firm grip on the back of the boy’s neck.

Ayvajin seemed to pause before a jolt of sheer energy came from her hand and bolted through the boy’s body. His hands fell back down to the ground as his body stiffened as if he had been paralyzed. Her right hand came up to hover over the boy’s face and soft words spilled from her lips in a rapid yet musical way. She was chanting a spell that was in the Language of the Dead, and after this was complete the boy’s body shook with violent tremors before finally a spiral of what appeared to be dark gray smoke came from his lips.

A sigh passed through the necromancer’s lips as her right hand took hold of the dark gray smoke of a demon above the boy. She said a quick chant before the smoke went skyward in a rush of air and disappeared up above.

The boy’s eyes returned to normal, yet he was in a daze. The necromancer took hold of the boy’s jaw with gentle touches. Her fingers glowed as her magic worked into the boy’s jaw and fixed it. When she was done, she sat back as the boy’s parents rushed forward and took him into their arms as he finally went unconscious.

Ayvajin let out a sigh, her injuries finally catching up to her.

[sweetwilliam]

One could say that, perhaps, he enjoyed doing these things -- making weaves. His expression was always too dull to tell. He would, with an expertise’s carelessness, lace and interlace the light from his tips, addressing to a lengthy procedure and demanding inspections. Then, he would remind himself once again that every new web was different than last. Yet, he was never sentimental. The web making was great to distract oneself or the perfect alibi to explain why paying attention to something was hardly an option. In this man’s case, the expanded weaves inadvertently hid his obvious observation of the altercation taking place. If not, it also disguised his peculiar habit of mumbling to himself. Whittaker found the crowd most amusing, listening to whispers and gasps come on cue, watching some wide-eyed or purely interested spectators. Sometimes, it would vary between races, of which, some had acknowledged the man, believed himself to be unassuming, eying about.

He turned to the women, now kneeling beside the boy and continued as she initiated the process with energy surging transferring from her hand. Beginning to muse again, Whittaker briefly looked back on the few exorcisms he encountered in life, with each oh so different every time. But, catching one note of the women’s voice, he and the crowd was presented with a spontaneous gray smoke-like phenomenon escaping into the air; yet she, as if she could tame the thing, took it and gave her final judgment before releasing it to a world far beyond the crowd’s expectation. Tension dispersed, and as the crowd began to cheer, Whittaker looked to the women and the work of her hands fixed upon the boy’s jaw. As he saw the glow, ethereal yet ephemeral, reshape the boy’s jaw, Whittaker gave out a windless, sorry chuckle and an awkward wince.

And finally, the boy was returned to the parents (Clap, clap, clap goes the crowd), in which Whittaker simply nodded to himself. ”Now…what?” It felt like work again. Looking up from his web, he saw the women let out a trembling sigh. “Oh no, you don’t…” he called, and proceeded toward her. The webs drifted in the air, for they were entwined on his fingers; and they, like he, hovered about strictly but steadily. While walking, Whittaker crisscrossed a few times and finally compressed the entire web, and it was as if it thickened with strands of white gold. On habit, he was cautious with these webs and his approach was sluggish. He said dryly, “And hold still. It’s the jittery patients that are really irritating.” The healer knelt by her. With a surgeon-like procedure, he carefully placed the webs on one of the wounds and already it began to mend, probably emitting a slight warmth.

Despite how rapidly the weaves responded, they could still break if there was too much stress on them or the patient, like the reopening of a fresh wound. “It’s magic, not instant gratification…” Whittaker grumbled to himself with a slight sigh of his own, remembering a distant anecdote. The first weave was a test and thus, he began to place the other webs waiting in line in the air. While at work, he distinctively distinguished two things: the ingredients dashed all over the street and the spectators still standing around. Whittaker did not, however, take note of his own injuries.

[Ayvajin]

Ayvajin let out a now content sigh as she watched the stranger take control over the wounds upon her legs. She knew this magic. It was weaker in comparison to her white magic that she had preformed, but it was effective nonetheless. The necromancer appreciated his actions, and she sent a reassuring smile.

“I have suffered worse injuries than these,” she told him, her eyes watching his hands. “There is no reason for me to move about as though I have never had a slash in my leg. I am grateful, however, for you doing this.”

Her voice had been soft, cool, and calm. She watched as the human did his art of healing. The necromancer could not help but to be happy that someone had brought it upon themselves to stand out from the crowd and help to heal her wounds. If no one had, she would have had to go back to her house in town and wrap up her own gashes.

“You should be concern with your own wounds as well. Thank you for tending to mine.”

[sweetwilliam]

Whittaker nodded solemnly at the rhythm of her appeased sigh. The wispy gesture was a satisfying form of feedback on his work more so then the spastic, blubbering voice or a stingy flail of bodily extremities whipping at you. This, of course, wasn't a constant encounter, but rather another one of those unwanted anecdotes. This woman in particular - thank the gods - was pleasingly serene, composed, and cooperative even after the rather explosive altercation that erupted not long ago. Quietly at work, with a surly and seemingly sour expression, this being a normal outlook for the healer, he watched the last of the lambent weaves slowly and gently blend with her skin which would then mend the wound on their own. He found that she too was watching the quiet phenomenon with a careful eye. And surely, the skill of a human's restoration powers were no match to the necromancer's. These weaves would be something along an ideal amusing little trick in the views of the higher archives of white magic. But again, she seemed content. Whittaker glanced and noted the heartened, quiet tug at her lips.

His calloused hands hovered over a weave settling itself on her skin hoping to reassure its steady establishment when he heard “You should be concern with your own wounds as well." At that, Whittaker's heavy brow, though in the usual dull procession, took a fascinating rise at the cadence of her voice. It questioned her suggestion, "My own...wounds?" He muttered.

Skeptically, he took his hands away, noting the dreaded tears and frays. Then he drew up his sleeves, not exceeding the length of his elbows. He heedlessly saw past the plethora of faded scars, so jagged like the treacherous barbed ends of a needle shrub, and gazed at the raw, twisted grooves of slithering red. Some wear on his grey robe hinted other points of injury. The demon managed to claw a distance almost a shoulder lengths at most, skidding all around the tough texture of his arm. It delved, not bone deep, but enough to make the freshness of blood look menacing to eyes that have the fortune to rarely see it bleed. "Oh. I see now," Whittaker grimaced and sighed. His dark brown eyes carelessly assessing the damage, "Well. I can deal with that later on anyway."

The healer, one who currently had no concern of his own physical well-being, rose to his feet, curtaining the scars on his arms. Whittaker didn't wince in the deft motion of the hand. He was numb to it, it seemed. Not physically perhaps, but the mind definitely pushed the matter aside. "I really don't think thank-yous are needed," he began bluntly,"I did just try to leave before so I wouldn't have to be caught up in whatever just happened. (Look how that turned out). But, the crowd got in the way. So..." Go figure, he trailed off for a brief second, "With the way they're going," he pointed at her wounds, "They'll fully heal if you give it a little more than a day or two, assuming you won't do anything ridiculous. Now--" he turned around and looked over the block where the chaos had taken place. Curious little items were dispersed over the brick paved street. Before, they were quietly kept away in the safety of coarse sack he had carried. Now, it is as if the sack had imploded. "About these..." Whittaker took the coarse linen thing into his hand, also coarse. Eying the dozens of herbs, roots, powders, jars, and flasks - some broken- he wondered if any of them were of any use.

[Ayvajin]

Ayvajin stood up from where she had been sitting on the ground. The wounds in her legs felt much better now that this friendly stranger had taken the time to heal them to the best of his abilities. She was rather glad to have had a healer around who was willing to heal her. If there hadn’t been, well, she would not have as much strength as she did now even though it was very little.

“I hope that not all of your items were destroyed,” the necromancer said, watching the human gather up his belongings. “I would pay to replace them if they were, since this is technically my fault. I should have been taking better care in stopping the possessed child from getting out into the street.”

The necromancer did feel responsible. Those who she preformed exorcisms on usually did not get away from her. Usually, she was able to keep them bound and unable to escape. She had not anticipated the strength of this particular demon which was why the boy had gotten lose and bolted through the window and out to the street.

“I do apologize for the trouble that I have caused.”