What business did a princess have in a swamp? The young lioness stalked forward with a permanent grimace etched upon her expression, her senses fogged over with the acute stench of rotting wilderness and her own blood. Motivated as the field Freis were, they were not exactly experienced medical professionals. And so, Anniston wandered with begrudging steps through Zaharli Swamp, her eyes peeled for some magical plant that would cure her of her ailments. Her stomach simmered with ever-growing irritation at her circumstances, pure spite fueling her onward in this futile medical mission – little did she know what familiar figure lurked in the shadows.

---

|| august y10 | two years | LP [vague] | at zaharli swamp ||

code by corvus

injuries bubble at the mercy of applied weight, injecting silence with the sick squelching of careful footfalls as she weaves through forest undergrowth. and though each step sends shockwaves of pain shooting up from toe to shoulder – painting her marred countenance in shades of agony as her lips twist and peel from gritting teeth – she moves with clear resolve. nostrils quiver with the familiar trail she hounds; and though her senses were diluted by the lingering haze of iron about her feet, still, she clings to the frei’s scent with a desperation born of concern. her toes were not the only casualties of lorien’s retaking, so she’d learn.

a glimmer of reflected moonlight seizes her focus amongst the shadows of night, casting a silver glow upon the vibrant plum palette known to anni’s form. with a quickening pace, olive stumbles to narrow the gap between them, disregarding the strain to her brutalized forepaw — just as much as she disregards the tension that’d come to rot at the roots of their once-blossoming friendship. “this the entrance to the losers club?” she rumbles upon approach: flippant in a way that would certainly strike a nerve with the crowned-again princess. and though @Anniston had once professed of a desire to be just like her, olive gets the feeling that that wish were never meant to extend beyond mannerisms — and especially, not to a precious tail, turned stub. she frowns, pointing to the empty space with an incline of the chin. “who?”

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“This the entrance to the losers club?”

That voice. Anniston's chest tightened as she froze where she stood, pulse quickening there in the expansive dark. Its rough alto reverberated through the marshy depths; it scraped against her ribcage with all its unexpected audacity. She gritted her teeth and considered begrudgingly why that voice always seemed to make her come to life while cutting her down simultaneously.

"Oh, is that something you're going for on purpose?" The girl drawled and craned her neck to get a glimpse of her. Maybe she would see her shrivel. Maybe she would see her care. Nevermind Anniston's own trailing list of defeats; if anyone was marking them down, it was not her. She etched a signature in blood regardless of who kept better penmanship.

“Who?” A simple question punctuated by the jutting of her velvet chin.

"Her royal highness," Anniston scoffed, choosing that moment to reveal her notably detached appendage with a theatrical flick of her wrist. There it hung, silvery and wine-stained. "I need... I need to fix it," she insisted, tearing her gaze away from the little imp – incapable of meeting her ruby gaze for fear of what she might see. If it was pity, the protegé might scream.

---

@Olive

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were she not left dazed and reeling from an earlier loss of consciousness, olive may have been perceptive to the fractured guise of anni’s confidence. instead, she wears the ghost of a smirk in offering of her good intentions: oblivious to the girl’s momentary lapse in poise as she hobbles closer, closer. and as she gives pause mere feet away – invading personal space for the first time in months – the tang of iron grows overbearing between them, serving to curdle the feel-good spirit of their reunion. the scathing, icy nature of anni’s retort only further sours the mood; and though olive acknowledges the overarching hard feelings of her counterpart, never once would she deign to return the favor. she had earned anni’s contempt the hard way — and in the grave dug from her own hand, would she rot.

— til she could level the dirt around them.

“well, if you’re good at something…” she trails, shoulders rolling in dismissive fashion. and though olive were capable of flippancy in the wake of such loss, it becomes apparent that @Anniston were not. nose scrunches with distaste as the girl unveils her gruesome carry-on: limp and lifeless between tightly-clenched toes. “dude–” she chokes out in disbelief — half-repulsed, half-amused by the bloody souvenir and anni’s willingness to keep it. but the freshly-tailless is quick to inform why, and olive’s gaze narrows upon the detached appendage with deep consideration and a fading grin. here were an opportunity too good to pass up.

“we can try,” she offers, gaze drifting to sweep the premises for any tools of the trade. and though olive were no shaman – her only other attempt to heal, a critical failure rendered useless by the death of her patient – she were so inclined to try with much less at stake. “find something… sticky,” she instructs, battling the urge to smirk in her great maturity as she hones in upon the fronds of a nearby plant. with a hum, she peels away from the girl, determined to collect its leaves for use of wrapping in their game of play-pretend. “y’know, can’t say i’m not surprised,” she calls over her shoulder, focused on the task at hand. “sorta assumed she was a… bark-worse-than-her-bite kinda lady.” if she could recall anything about the former lorien crowd at all, it were just that: loud with threat. olive smirks inwardly, humoring herself with such notion.

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Her stare was even as she assessed the smaller lioness, a rare quietness overtaking the girl as she remained haunted by the many skeletons in their shared closet. Her chest tightened despite Olive's attempt at a joke and she flicked her ears back, only watching with interest as her companion recoiled at the sight of her damaged appendage.

"I couldn't let them have it," Anniston argued against a criticism that had not been made, jutting her bottom lip in a pout. Still, the narrowing of her vermillion gaze suggested that Olive was actually entertaining her quest, and this was enough to loosen the clutching of her icy heart ever so slightly.

“Find something… sticky.”

"I'm not letting you spit on it," she warned. Scrambling to her paws, Anniston shot Olive one last look of warning before turning back to the marshlands she had been scouring half-heartedly. Sticky. Frustration simmering in her chest, it dawned upon the young lioness that she had historically avoided such things at any cost. She shriveled slightly as she walked, trying to keep her tail stiffly out behind her to avoid jostling it too painfully; still, every step was shooting agony.

"I need drugs. I need drugs," she was chanting feebly by the time she returned to the master procrastinator. Outstretching one paw, Anniston revealed a strip of umber bark with a glowing, amber substance affixed to it. "This was coming out of a tree. It wouldn't be poison... right?" A moment of silent consideration. "Oh, who cares. Let's do it."

---

@Olive

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condemned, she stands before the judge and jury: bound, but unbreakable beneath the weight of her conviction. and though the heat of intense scrutiny scorches every inch of skin held beneath the fuchsian limelight, olive does not founder amongst the flames — nor can she. she can only accept the sentence @Anniston bestows upon her with quiet resolve, clinging to hopes of eventual absolution all the while. and while she doubts mending the girl’s tail will suffice given the egregious nature of her offense, it is one step closer to reparation — and one olive blindly takes despite the many risks it carries.

idly, she hums as she strips the forest undergrowth of its thick fronds, keeping an ear trained upon her distant patient while she works. and though the frenzied mantra of her companion does draw her lips into an amused, fond smile, olive does not resign from the task at hand until anni approaches with her findings. with jaws tightly-clenched about her own gathered tools, she can only offer a muffled “gueth we’ll thee,” in response to the frei’s voiced concerns, emphasizing uncertainty with a halfhearted shrug. but neither woman appears too concerned by such odds, and olive breaks from the bushes to collapse in an unceremonious heap amongst her strewn collection of makeshift bandages. she pats the space besides her, then: an invitation to the examination table.

“i should warn you… my last patient did not live to tell the tale of my great healing feats.” the sly grin that creeps across her countenance betrays the truth in her statement, but the hollow look in her eyes does well enough to contradict her outer sardonicism. even so, she does not permit much leeway for questioning or protest. “so! where do you want it to go?” she gestures to the tail with a pointed glance, battling the urge to laugh at her own joke as her lashes flutter with feigned innocence. though something tells her anni will not find her flippant inquiry as humorous as she does.

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“Gueth we’ll thee.”

Indeed.

Anniston frowned with mild concern as she marched dutifully toward the paw-patted limelight, fixing her gaze curiously upon Olive as she prepared the makeshift bandages at her side. It was an easy dynamic to settle into – her guiding paws always that much more nimble than Anniston's own, her gaze carefree while Anni's held silent searching. Only the mentor's revelation could awaken her from that trance with wide eyes and a fallen expression.

“I should warn you… my last patient did not live to tell the tale of my great healing feats. So! Where do you want it to go?”

Her face was already creased in plum, velvet bewilderment.

"I swear, if you make me look like a freak, I'll...!" Anniston squealed with frustration as the threat found nowhere to go. Most likely, she would cry, loud and theatrical for all of Aniadar Jungle to hear. Still, she doubted that even Olive would commit to a bit that hard.

"Back on the other half of the tail, please," she relented while batting her lashes in faux-fawning.

---

@Olive

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much to olive’s pleasant surprise, her patient concedes to offered instruction with little hesitance: resigning to the examination table with quiet diligence. snickers find the faux-medic with anni’s eventual, incredulous retort before she begins rummaging through supplies, sparing curious inspection of the nub all the while. gored and severed, the sight is enough to set her lips in a firm, grim line as she envisions the pain — and that fateful day upon the plains. and from olive’s warped, biased perspective, the saxe queen’s maim had been more than overkill for such minor transgressions: entirely undeserved, and mindlessly cruel.

stunned into an uncharacteristic silence spurred by deep thought, olive begins slathering the detached appendage with the unknown adhesive. with gentle touch, she endeavors to do the same to the remnants of anni’s tail with a soft: “i dunno if this will burn, but…” in warning. and like a dutiful nurse, she works with utmost concentration – striving to unify both fragments of tail with steady hands, a gritted jaw, and blind optimism. they needed this to work; olive needed this to work in her mission to attain forgiveness from her scorned, youthful counterpart.

“were they always so… super chill and fun?” she queries, gaze never once faltering from the task at hand despite the heat that unfurls across her cheeks. and though she had glimpsed @Anniston at her boy-toy’s challenge – finding her mostly unscathed – she were uncertain as to the validity of aeistrios’ claims of fair treatment.

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"Ow! Ow ow ow!" She hissed, answering the indirect question before it could even be uttered. Anniston winced and pulled her body instinctually away as she felt the lioness agitating her grossly wounded tail, using what little remnants of self-control she possessed to keep from ripping it out of her grasp. Even one so turbulent as she could recognize a necessary evil.

"What did I say about drugs?" Anniston complained in a whimper. Her belly burned with pure loathing: loathing for Olive, in the blind rage of pain, but mainly for those who had done this to her.

“Were they always so… super chill and fun?” Olive seemed to read her mind, earning a scoff from the heiress that was probably supposed to resemble a laugh.

"Super," she agreed dryly. "Ahh, is it almost done?" She begged, glancing over her shoulder with a wince.

---

@Olive

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olive is using the master beatnik perk to use the sub-master perk of any other trade, choosing medic's maim reversal
ever the primadonna (and much to olive’s secret amusement), her patient erupts from the examination table in a chorus of yelps and protests – well-amplified over the drone of summer wildlife. ears flatten against the contours of olive’s lowered crown in response as she feigns displeasure, stifling bouts of laughter beneath the concentrated bite of her bottom lip as a guttural hiss endeavors to hush. “it can’t be that bad,” she muses aloud, steadying her working paw while she presses forward with anni’s flinch. but in her inexperience, this makeshift nurse can only presume as to the gravity of side effects; and she spares the frei a moment of peace before gathering the fronds sprawled out around them.

using the sap as an adhesive, she wraps the palms about the stub and its dismembered counterpart, fortifying the hold in layers upon layers in hopes of better outcome. and as she binds the final frond, she slithers back from anni’s close quarters: inspecting her handiwork with a narrowed and critical gaze. “viola!” she announces, gesturing to the tightly-wound tail with the exaggerated wave of bloodied forepaws. “and, alakazam, you’re fixed.” and while olive were not certain as to the effectiveness of her tools, she supposes time would reveal all — and come what miracles may.

but after stewing in prospective scenarios as to what transpired in her absence, olive spares her young companion the curious crinkle of a brow. despite mounting uncertainty, however, olive refrains from inquiry, permitting silence for a moment too long as she internally debates upon offers of apology. “anni?” she manages at long last, cadence lowered by a solemnity she’d sooner damn. but olive is tentative – naueseous with the heavy feelings that cloud all sense of rationality – and slowly withdraws with the intent to disappear back through the swampy haze. “no one will touch you again.” not so long as there is life in olive’s lungs and love in her heart — and 18 remaining fingers at her disposal to defend her beloved kin.

-- exeunt olive

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