His red hair lay flat against this skin, held there by the sweat that pulled about his eyes and on his cheeks. He should be covering himself, conserving his energy, trying to keep from sweating too much. But he didn't have the mind or the care for it. The fire of the battlefield didn't claim him, so what hope did this desert have? If Dalamud had spared him, what hope did Azeyma have? How could he ever again see the Warden as having any power to protect or hinder him, after this?
There was no way to describe what parts of his mind and spirit had been burned away by the Calamity. It had left him with his body, burned and battered and cut, on the verge of crumbling, but it would heal. The spirit would not. Time did not mend all wounds, especially when those wounds were infected.
K'ile Tia could smell K'piru before he saw her, and to him, it was like the scent of a medicinal salve, or a wave of oncoming sleep to sate exhaustion. This had a strange impact upon him. The world which had begun to shrink so quickly as Dalamud fell, suddenly focused to a pinprick, to just that woman. In the mix of scents that described the shaman, he could pick out the lingering smell of K'thalen Nunh, his brother, her mate. He could smell the wounds of others on her hands, of herbs and poultices, sweat and blood and desperation.
For a moment, in the heat and the dry air, K'ile wavered on his feet. Weakness washed over him, and the pain from slow-healing wounds that dappled his flesh in great number clamored at his senses.
He cursed them, and turned his gaze on K'piru as she exitted the tent. K'ile could barely see her. So bright was the light, and his vision so vexed by pain, sweat in his eyes. He didn't need to; it was her, his brother's woman. The hearts of K'ile's brother, Thalen's children, and K'piru, all pumped the same familial blood as surely as they were attached in their veins.
K'ile approached the woman quickly. He might have run. He couldn't sense his own limbs. But he couldn't say anything either. What could he say? Where in the world was there a language that had words for times like this? Some cursed place, with a cursed tongue. Whatever realm it was that had birthed words such as Dalamud and Garlemald. Surely that place would have words for this moment.
Without pause, as soon as he could, K'ile blindly let himself rush over K'piru and wrap his arms around her, clutching at her in desperation. The smell of her,as he did this, chased out all other sense. Even in this there was the stench of fire and fear, though, for they wrapped her as sure as anything else. He took her in his arms without word or preamble. He could not have done anything else.
There was no way to describe what parts of his mind and spirit had been burned away by the Calamity. It had left him with his body, burned and battered and cut, on the verge of crumbling, but it would heal. The spirit would not. Time did not mend all wounds, especially when those wounds were infected.
K'ile Tia could smell K'piru before he saw her, and to him, it was like the scent of a medicinal salve, or a wave of oncoming sleep to sate exhaustion. This had a strange impact upon him. The world which had begun to shrink so quickly as Dalamud fell, suddenly focused to a pinprick, to just that woman. In the mix of scents that described the shaman, he could pick out the lingering smell of K'thalen Nunh, his brother, her mate. He could smell the wounds of others on her hands, of herbs and poultices, sweat and blood and desperation.
For a moment, in the heat and the dry air, K'ile wavered on his feet. Weakness washed over him, and the pain from slow-healing wounds that dappled his flesh in great number clamored at his senses.
He cursed them, and turned his gaze on K'piru as she exitted the tent. K'ile could barely see her. So bright was the light, and his vision so vexed by pain, sweat in his eyes. He didn't need to; it was her, his brother's woman. The hearts of K'ile's brother, Thalen's children, and K'piru, all pumped the same familial blood as surely as they were attached in their veins.
K'ile approached the woman quickly. He might have run. He couldn't sense his own limbs. But he couldn't say anything either. What could he say? Where in the world was there a language that had words for times like this? Some cursed place, with a cursed tongue. Whatever realm it was that had birthed words such as Dalamud and Garlemald. Surely that place would have words for this moment.
Without pause, as soon as he could, K'ile blindly let himself rush over K'piru and wrap his arms around her, clutching at her in desperation. The smell of her,as he did this, chased out all other sense. Even in this there was the stench of fire and fear, though, for they wrapped her as sure as anything else. He took her in his arms without word or preamble. He could not have done anything else.
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