The young Roegadyn female was staring out of the window again.
At 14 cycles, she was already tall and strong for her age, but her face still clung to youthful chubbiness around her jawline; the little of it that could be seen.
Almost her entire head was swathed in bandages.
"A tree.  A tree of all things!" her younger sister chortled next to the bed. "Yer usually chopping those things down, not skinning up them like a skrat."
Without turning, the bandaged female made a rude hand gesture towards her sibling, who only chortled louder. Â The laughter caused tears to stream out of her eyes, her long black hair whipping around her pale-green face even as her short, lithe body doubled over, arms wrapped around her stomach.
"And lilac smallclothes! Â Ha! Â Shown off to all two of your lovers and half the village all at the same time. Â It was brilliant to watch!"
The patient turned to glare pointedly at the smaller Roegadyn female. Â She looked ready to leap from her cot, injuries be Twelve-damned, if only to pummel her sister.
"Enough, Syhrrael. Â Let her rest, as Wyznwyb already told you last night," Styrblyss stated coolly as she smoothly shouldered the giggling girl to the door. Â The village undertaker held a large, wooden tray bearing a bowl of river-cold water, towels, bandages, and a spool of waxed cotton with a needle stuck in the centre.
Syhrrael was too busy laughing to complain as the door was shut soundly in her face.
Styrblyss, dressed as always in black robes with her cowl and hood drawn back, made her way to the small bedside table and chair next to the patient, who had already gone back to looking out of the window.
"Time to change those bandages, Fystrael. Â Also going to re-clean and stitch back up those deeper gashes."
Slowly, Fystrael turned away from the window to face Styrblyss. Â Her eye - one was hidden under the mass of bandages - was wet, but the tears weren't falling.
Styrblyss nodded and hummed in response as she worked the end of the bandage free.
"You know full well Syhrrael knows that you'd never give your virginity to those two oafs, but nothing riles you up faster. Â She was probably just trying to make sure you hadn't rattled your good senses out of your head with your fall."
Fystrael harrumphed and closed her eyes as the bandages spooled over, under, and around her head in complex patterns.
"You spent almost two days half-asleep, you know. Â Your brains have taken a worse beating in the twinkle of an eye than your body has over the past 14 cycles," Styrblyss informed Fystrael as she elegantly seated herself next to the bed. Â Fystrael watched her motions with an uncommon interest. Â
The look certainly changed as the cold, wet towel began scrubbing away grime and gore from a face covered in lacerations. Â One eye, surrounded by an enormous mass of bruised tissue, was slightly darker than the other and did not focus well in the bright sunlight. Â Styrblyss noted this and other physical issues as she lowered the bed sheets to cleanse Fystrael's body; the dislocated shoulder sitting in a sling after a vain attempt to halt gravity, the twisted ankle from an abrupt collapse to the ground upon attempting to stand, the bruised ribs where painful contact was made with tree branches on the way down and the ferociously red and throbbing lump on her head, where it first made contact with the tree trunk.
"Oh darling, Swyrswys, what on earth drove you to climb that monstrous living log?" Styrblyss cried out as she watched Fystrael grimace with each pass of the towel. Â The rough cotton was turning an ugly shade of maroon and brown even as Fystrael's skin came out squeaky clean under Styrblyss' ministrations.
The younger Roegadyn winced and dropped her head. Â Styrblyss only sighed and continued the towel bath. Â Fystrael winced again as an unbidden thought raced across her foggy mind.
'Is this how she bathes them 'fore the shrouding?'
The tension that the thought caused made muscles that should have be resting seize up painfully. Styrblyss placed a calm, strong hand on her charge until the cramps subsided.
"And no, this does not remind me of the rigor mortise of a corpse."
Fystrael gave a bashful, snorting giggle at that, embarrassed at being caught. Â Styrblyss gave a small smirk in response. Â She knew that her job was uncommon in a world of aetheryte attunement, but Nald'Thal's scales always tipped the other way at some point.
Silence reigned for a while longer. Â Soon, the bath was done and Fystrael was back in bed, carefully re-clothed in a long, clean night-shirt. Â As Styrblyss tucked her in for the remainder of the day, she used her words to pierce the veil of silence.
"You were riding a mast on your father's ship, weren't you?"
Fystrael visibly shuddered, then awkwardly slid down under her blankets. Â Styrblyss waited patiently.
Finally, after almost one bell, the undertaker heard the first snuffle. Â The sheets shuddered roughly, constantly as broken sniffles became rough wails and harsh cries.
The storm, long building, had finally broken. Â Wyznwyb closed the bedroom door as her husband's mistress tenderly cradled their first-born, satisfied.
The white mage's tears left a trail on the wooden floor as she hurried away. Â She had a birthing to attend; as always, it was best to leave death and its aftermath to a black mage.
At 14 cycles, she was already tall and strong for her age, but her face still clung to youthful chubbiness around her jawline; the little of it that could be seen.
Almost her entire head was swathed in bandages.
"A tree.  A tree of all things!" her younger sister chortled next to the bed. "Yer usually chopping those things down, not skinning up them like a skrat."
Without turning, the bandaged female made a rude hand gesture towards her sibling, who only chortled louder. Â The laughter caused tears to stream out of her eyes, her long black hair whipping around her pale-green face even as her short, lithe body doubled over, arms wrapped around her stomach.
"And lilac smallclothes! Â Ha! Â Shown off to all two of your lovers and half the village all at the same time. Â It was brilliant to watch!"
The patient turned to glare pointedly at the smaller Roegadyn female. Â She looked ready to leap from her cot, injuries be Twelve-damned, if only to pummel her sister.
"Enough, Syhrrael. Â Let her rest, as Wyznwyb already told you last night," Styrblyss stated coolly as she smoothly shouldered the giggling girl to the door. Â The village undertaker held a large, wooden tray bearing a bowl of river-cold water, towels, bandages, and a spool of waxed cotton with a needle stuck in the centre.
Syhrrael was too busy laughing to complain as the door was shut soundly in her face.
Styrblyss, dressed as always in black robes with her cowl and hood drawn back, made her way to the small bedside table and chair next to the patient, who had already gone back to looking out of the window.
"Time to change those bandages, Fystrael. Â Also going to re-clean and stitch back up those deeper gashes."
Slowly, Fystrael turned away from the window to face Styrblyss. Â Her eye - one was hidden under the mass of bandages - was wet, but the tears weren't falling.
Styrblyss nodded and hummed in response as she worked the end of the bandage free.
"You know full well Syhrrael knows that you'd never give your virginity to those two oafs, but nothing riles you up faster. Â She was probably just trying to make sure you hadn't rattled your good senses out of your head with your fall."
Fystrael harrumphed and closed her eyes as the bandages spooled over, under, and around her head in complex patterns.
"You spent almost two days half-asleep, you know. Â Your brains have taken a worse beating in the twinkle of an eye than your body has over the past 14 cycles," Styrblyss informed Fystrael as she elegantly seated herself next to the bed. Â Fystrael watched her motions with an uncommon interest. Â
The look certainly changed as the cold, wet towel began scrubbing away grime and gore from a face covered in lacerations. Â One eye, surrounded by an enormous mass of bruised tissue, was slightly darker than the other and did not focus well in the bright sunlight. Â Styrblyss noted this and other physical issues as she lowered the bed sheets to cleanse Fystrael's body; the dislocated shoulder sitting in a sling after a vain attempt to halt gravity, the twisted ankle from an abrupt collapse to the ground upon attempting to stand, the bruised ribs where painful contact was made with tree branches on the way down and the ferociously red and throbbing lump on her head, where it first made contact with the tree trunk.
"Oh darling, Swyrswys, what on earth drove you to climb that monstrous living log?" Styrblyss cried out as she watched Fystrael grimace with each pass of the towel. Â The rough cotton was turning an ugly shade of maroon and brown even as Fystrael's skin came out squeaky clean under Styrblyss' ministrations.
The younger Roegadyn winced and dropped her head. Â Styrblyss only sighed and continued the towel bath. Â Fystrael winced again as an unbidden thought raced across her foggy mind.
'Is this how she bathes them 'fore the shrouding?'
The tension that the thought caused made muscles that should have be resting seize up painfully. Styrblyss placed a calm, strong hand on her charge until the cramps subsided.
"And no, this does not remind me of the rigor mortise of a corpse."
Fystrael gave a bashful, snorting giggle at that, embarrassed at being caught. Â Styrblyss gave a small smirk in response. Â She knew that her job was uncommon in a world of aetheryte attunement, but Nald'Thal's scales always tipped the other way at some point.
Silence reigned for a while longer. Â Soon, the bath was done and Fystrael was back in bed, carefully re-clothed in a long, clean night-shirt. Â As Styrblyss tucked her in for the remainder of the day, she used her words to pierce the veil of silence.
"You were riding a mast on your father's ship, weren't you?"
Fystrael visibly shuddered, then awkwardly slid down under her blankets. Â Styrblyss waited patiently.
Finally, after almost one bell, the undertaker heard the first snuffle. Â The sheets shuddered roughly, constantly as broken sniffles became rough wails and harsh cries.
The storm, long building, had finally broken. Â Wyznwyb closed the bedroom door as her husband's mistress tenderly cradled their first-born, satisfied.
The white mage's tears left a trail on the wooden floor as she hurried away. Â She had a birthing to attend; as always, it was best to leave death and its aftermath to a black mage.
![[Image: ffxiv_sig.png]](http://s9.postimg.org/t7r3hksjz/ffxiv_sig.png)
