gurabad | 041 » all of the things that you said

[It hardly matters why such misfortunes strike, Y'shtola will reflect, some days later. Only that they do, and one must ever be prepared.

What matters is that she agreed to accompany a small squadron of knights and scholars from Ishgard into the snowdrifts of the western highlands, in order to advise a proper investigation into the coincidence of an overabundance of aetheric activity and a veritable waterfall of inauspicious star readings. What matters is that they do these things in part to further ground the alliance and their relatively still neutral place in it, and in part because no Sharlayan born can manage to turn off her thirst for new knowledge.

What matters, some time afterward, is the rising wind and its silent snows. The treacherous roads between icy cliffsides, the frozen pools, the great beasts lumbering through the squall unperturbed, protected well by thick pelts and thicker skin. The lone, hungry shriek of a nearby archaeornis as the party discusses accommodation to weather the storm. No sinister force barring a very large dragon would be able to make use of some natural aether imbalance in these conditions any more than they could locate it in the act.

The matter of unsteady footing, of solid ground become as flowing water all at once, rolling and sending forth a churning icy mist of announcement of its arrival, separating knight from scholar from Scion. In the chaos to follow, Y'shtola finds herself alive, largely unhurt, and very much alone.

She dares not call out, into the depth of the storm, well cautioned against inciting another localized avalanche into marching. Instead she seeks out temporary shelter in what ways she can.

It matters more than any other concern that a separate, unrelated traveling party made its way home this day to Ishgard. Bearing the colors and standard of a red rose, they pressed on through the driving snow with the wind at their backs. Similar disaster overtook them, or Y'shtola can but assume from the scattered belongings and at least one terribly unfortunate chocobo.

Thus resolved, she searches for some sign of life, or - if the worst has come to pass - at least the tools to protect herself from the weather until such time as she can contact her friends. When she notes the particular design upon that chocobo's saddle she feels a single dagger twist in her stomach, and she prays fervently that she shall not encounter the corpse of one such friend this day.

It matters that he is alive when she does find him. That there is a living, loyal mount of his House nearby, one who perhaps can be persuaded into just a few yalms more travel, bearing an unwitting rider.]

[he is alive, in some ways, and dead, in others.

it matters to him, at least, that the snow around his head no longer feels cold; that the head injury he sustained when the snow gave way beneath his feet no longer bothers him; that he cannot convince edelweiss to leave his side and run for shelter. the last part is the worst. edelweiss has been a loyal girl, a good girl, and she does not deserve to die with her master in the depths of a western highlands avalanche. she deserves a warm stable and a manger full of gysahl greens, he thinks, dimly — the only coherent thought he has managed in several minutes. she deserves to pass peacefully, in her sleep, after all these years. not like this. not like this.

he does not think any such thing about himself.

when y'shtola finds him, lying on the ground, francel opens his eyes — but the motion leaves him spent, and he closes them again soon enough. someone has come? someone has come, and francel's speech comes slurred, through slow breaths; his freezing, trembling limbs make weakly as if to push y'shtola away.]

Leave... leave me. I... I want...

[Rather than allow him to deter her, when he reaches with shaking hands and arms she takes them in hers, kneeling fast at his side in the snow. Relief washes over her at the sound of his voice, however weak, and she releases one of his hands only to rest her gloved fingers against his face.]

Enough.

[The snow pulls at every sound, drowning her voice and his in deadly batting. There is nothing she can do for him while he lies here and she crouches at the mercy of ice and wind.

Y'shtola musters a whistle, any winces hidden well beneath all her layers. Edelweiss is a good girl, as evidenced by her approach at the unfamiliar call in her master's vicinity.]

Your companion needs you now. [Whether or not chocobos truly understand the things their riders tell them, Francel's life rests upon the presumption that they do, and so Y'shtola shall believe. She leads Edelweiss nearer and the bird kneels, too, showing a noticeable limp and a pained whistle.

Then she is at Francel's side once more, grasping his hands this time to aid in the casting of one simple spell. If he is so badly injured that she cannot chance moving him she knows not what else she might do.]

[francel's closed eyes do not stir, even when y'shtola moves to heal him; it is therefore impossible to tell if her carefully woven spell has mended all of his hurts, but his color appears marginally more hale.

edelweiss croons softly, and there is a pained edge to her cry that makes it sound more like a whimper — but she is a knight's bird at heart, and she would sooner die than leave her rider stranded in the snow. despite her limp, she makes an effort to half-scoop francel up onto her back. undoubtedly, not having arms, she will need y'shtola's assistance in this matter.]

[From somewhat intelligible speech to not stirring even at the aether response of a spell. Y'shtola's face would be the picture of concern, were it visible past her hood and thick scarf. They have less time than she feared.

When Edelweiss tries without prompting to help Francel onto her saddle, Y'shtola can only nod and assist, gritting her teeth against her own injuries. Francel is solid and dense even for a man of his height, and laden with heavy outer clothing as only an Ishgardian can master. All the while a chronometer ticks away the seconds in her mind.

When at last he lies astride the saddle - and it is clear there will be no break in the snowstorm, nor any audible calls for help nearby - Y'shtola offers Edelweiss as much encouragement as she can, with a hand around her reins to guide her through the snow. They are near enough to a long-abandoned settlement, most recently used as the headquarters for the Lady Ysayle and her "heretical" followers.

If they are very fortunate, no one else will be in residence when they arrive, and at least enough wood for a fire shall remain.]

[the abandoned farmhouse at gorgagne mills has lain quiet and unused for some time — once upon a time, ser redwald thought to claim it for house durendaire's use, but the distance between the homestead and falcon's nest was too great, and now no one uses it, not even wayward travelers.

edelweiss shakes flakes of snow from her ruffled tailfeathers. exhaustion seems to have finally claimed her — she buckles slightly as she lowers her body to allow her unconscious master his descent — and like as not she would appreciate some of y'shtola's physicking, as well. for now, however, her limp is not life-threatening.

francel, on the other hand, hovers somewhere between here and halone's hall. his skin is deathly cold, and his cheek remains pressed firmly against edelweiss's neck.]

[If it is so long abandoned, then anything left behind by the heretics shall be chilled but, one hopes, undisturbed.

The ground level is sectioned into stables, and it is into the largest that Y'shtola leads Edelweiss just ere the loyal chocobo cannot continue. There are arrangements she must make with haste, whilst Francel still balances unconscious upon Edelweiss's back: closing fast the door, gathering the dispersed piles of straw into aught more serviceable. The interior is cold but lacks both snow and wind; Y'shtola carefully sheds her outer coat, wincing all the while, and spreads it over the gathered straw as well as she can.

Only then does she relieve Edelweiss of her burden, guiding Francel's insensible form out of the saddle and onto his hastily-constructed bed. Already she can feel the cold reaching her in places it had not before. They all need real heat, no matter how wary she is of building up a fire so near the straw and wooden walls.

With a few kind words of thanks to Edelweiss, Y'shtola resolves to make her journey into the cellar as brief as possible; she takes her staff.

Fortune is with them at last, then, for all she finds below - besides the altar bearing the wrought figures of Hraesvelgr and Shiva - are spent candles, fraying curtains, and some meager jars of various preserves. For now she returns only with what cloths she can retrieve from the walls and a few candles for light.

Francel's condition is her next priority, once the meeting of aether and some kindling well against the outer stone wall of the farmhouse is sorted. Conjury is not known for its warmth, drawing as it does from the aether of the natural world. Still. She makes short work of unfastening Francel's coat to search for obvious injuries. Even while she does, she begins a much more intricate restoration spell; may their fortune hold long enough to see him through.]

[beneath the laces of his bliaud and — should y'shtola risk exposing his skin to the elements to ascertain his health — his undershirt, francel's form is slender, his skin unblemished. his only injury, it seems, is the head wound he sustained when he lost his footing in the snow; perhaps his skull met ice, or else hard rock, and roughly enough that he has yet to awaken from the blow.

under y'shtola's careful ministrations, however, and the gentle light of her more powerful spell, the young lord at last shows signs of improvement. when at last the concentrated aether in y'shtola's staff dissipates, francel's head tips slightly to one side. he groans, but does not open his eyes. he feels a gentle draft, but no freezing cold. is this halone's hall at last? he wonders.]

Where...?

Edited 2018-01-26 21:03 (UTC)

[It is a risk she discards; she looks only for visible blood or broken bones, as her spell will tell her readily of any less obvious damage. In near silence she works - Y'shtola has never been one to mutter or mumble to herself whilst healing the unconscious - scarcely hearing the gentle crackle of her meager fire or any sounds Edelweiss makes.

Even a healer of her caliber can only repair so much damage with spells; that it is an injury to his head, and its effects largely internal, is a particularly tall barrier. She thought the cold to be the chief source of Francel's unresponsive state.

He ought not freeze, regardless. Once the spell is finished she covers him with two of the borrowed draperies. He may not give off much heat of his own yet, but she shall be damned if what little there is can escape him. Another makeshift blanket goes over Edelweiss, and she is near to seeing to the chocobo's injuries when Francel makes a sound.

Perhaps he fares better than she hoped after all. Kneeling once more at his side, and well prepared to hold him still should he attempt to move or to rise, Y'shtola hears his empty Where and her serious frown softens.]

Would that I knew its name.

[She has been here once before, and heard reports of it, but what the Ishgardians call this lost settlement? 'Tis anybody's guess. At least with the fire, at a distance though it burns, Y'shtola too has lost some of her shivering.]

But you are quite safe.

[at last, the young lord opens his eyes. francel wakes beneath a shroud of scratchy linen, and as expected, his first instinct is to attempt to push himself to a sitting position. a wave of nausea stays his hand, however, as does a reproachful kweh from edelweiss's corner of the stables.]

...A farmhouse? But we were in western Coerthas...

[softly, and with a pained expression, he groans.]

Fury, my head...

[Wave of nausea or no, a steady pair of hands also stay his rising, and Y'shtola shakes her head gently.]

Lie still. In western Coerthas we yet remain. [For someone from whom Francel must expect firm and direct speech, she has lowered her voice considerably.] You were injured, and lay too long half-buried in snow. Rest and quiet will best serve you now.

[Yet he seems to know himself, and the moments before the avalanche. All positive signs. Y'shtola adjusts his blankets.]

Still...?

[francel allows himself to be pressed into his bales of hay (cushioned by y'shtola's coat) once more; edelweiss stares at him with a look that seems simultaneously satisfied and reproachful. he tries to think. if they are still in western coerthas... but there are no farmhouses around falcon's nest. they must be farther north, then, at —]

...Ah. Gorgagne Mills...

[so he comes to his conclusion, with a touch of finality. then he falls silent, and rests his head against the floor for a time.]

Edited 2018-01-27 01:34 (UTC)

[Ah, but it is good to have the chocobo on her side.

The last thing she wants is to muddle Francel's mind further with too many words. So Y'shtola rises again, her thoughts turned to Edelweiss's injuries, chiefly the limp she suffered. Granted, she's not healed a chocobo in recent memory, but they are living and breathing creatures like any others.

So she spends a while in casting, encouraging the healing of that injured leg with every attempt to ease any lingering pain. Soon, she will want to address her own hurts, but it can wait, as ever, until the others have been seen to and settled.]

My thanks. [To Edelweiss, and then she comes to sit beside Francel with one of the curtains wrapped about her shoulders.]

ok i think i did it

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too good not to use

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