The more certainly was different. Gross, squishy, making it hard for one such as herself to even exist. The bodies of those who carried her, took her further in, and with so little movement Sersie would utterly say she was lost. Though, the tripod once Queen wouldn't dare utter those words. Her lips were sealed through pain and misery, only managing to eat teeny bits of meat due to the fracture in her jaw. Or break? Hell if she knew. All that Sersie could tell was that it hurt like ducking hell.

Probably worse than the infection in water logged lungs, worse than the healing gash in her skull.

Three pillars shake under her weight, but it doesn't stop the lioness. Determination is written along her skull as she tries to move--just into the sunlight--to bask in its dim glory. The cold of fever hasn't worn away, and a shiver runs along her spine.

When at last she finds a suitable spot, dry and risen above the muck: a prompt humph is heard as her body finds peace with relaxation. The only delicate part she treats with any care is her skull, positioning her head so the jaw could be lax but not hurt. A rasp is heard in her lungs with each breath. But she was still alive. Very much so. And that was enough for the tripod to keep going.

@Alarith (I know this table is wonky, I'll have to fix it later lol)

code by daanyan, Art by Rabbit

Alarith

call it wound, call it beginning
the bird’s beak twisted into a small circle of awe
you called it cutting apart
I called it song

They came in droves, filling his hallowed halls and wielding swords in his name. Slowly had the Mire morphed into what her clan had always warned her of—unyielding, unusual, foreign. Long had the desire to reject what she didn't understand been driven into her very being, but Alarith persisted still. She could endure through the anxious swell in her chest, the strange manner with which these lions addressed themselves, adorned themselves with the blood of their enemies. They sought power out willingly, as if it were owed to them, as if it were as natural as breathing. They destroyed everything they touched, and nature suffered along with it. Long had the flourish of animals been driven out of Ecrosia, hunted to near-extinction by the hungry lions crawling within its underbelly. Even the trees seemed to bend in the wake of Luther's unrelenting presence.

But he were not the only one who commanded power. He were not alone in his machinations, in his ambitions.

@Sersie is a stumbling, gangly thing; to not fault of her own. The evidence of her travesty was written in her very skin, in the tight and deformed curve of her jaw. Alarith watched from afar at first, curiosity having driven her to follow the scent of sickness and blight. The little bird had sparse knowledge of healing, but such was the duty of all of her clan to learn at least enough to stabilize. The bounties of nature were plentiful, and without herbivores to feast upon it, foliage had grown with abandon. She watches with keen eyes the ragged rise and fall of Sersie's chest, the way she seemed to have to fight at every turn. How easy it would be to slip away into that eternal comfort, to find peace in the mercy of death.

Yet still, she fought. Tired, gaunt, she fought. Alarith felt some semblance of mercy.

Slowly, she slunk from the tree cover, until she came to stand just before the ailing woman. Sunlight flitted through the trees above, dappling them in a dancing golden light. Between her jaws were a mix of potent herbs—some for pain, others for inflammation. But among them, a thorny leaf, branch just as prickled, slicked with a viscous poultice. Such a plant was a final mercy.

I bring ladaral, she says, her voice muffled by the herbs, Ma nuem i'tel suleval.

---

¹ Herbs.
² You suffer needlessly.

code by cala, art by rabbit

The tripod has met few who live here, save for those on the beach that fateful day. Mindful of her current limitation, Sersie made herself scarce. Thoughts reel against that fractured skull, wondering what she could've done differently--how she could've predicted the wrath of the sea would thrust destruction upon her, how she could've prevented the sea from swallowing her children.

Save one.

Her mind thinks to Sevasti, the girl was strong and worthy of her name. Tongue rakes against a few raw cuts, wondering if it would be best to seek out her daughter. Instead, the universe that mocks Sersie's every move decided to grace her with a stranger---one who is scented of the Mire. The herbs tipped her off before the muffled voice of the other broke the heavy air.

A head turn, slowly, to swing her gaze to fully encapsulate @Alarith. The fuck did she just say? There was no mask to hide her inner thoughts, the world of Sersie is a bold and unabashed one.

"How the fuck do I know you wont poisoned me?" she barely managed to growl out between painfully clenched teeth. As if her body couldn't hide the pain, her singular paw came to grab the side of her face. "For all I fucking know, you're just one of the whores the pale one has. " he definitely seemed the kind to have quite a few pieces in his treasure trove. The girl was pretty, she'd give her that much. But pretty only got you so far.

Though, she could see the appeal.

Sersie's hand returns to the rock with a thud, brow creased in shadow across her mauled face. Her good eye watches the herbs, then the body of the pale woman, then back to the herbs. Was the pain bad enough for her to risk it? .

code by daanyan, Art by Rabbit

Alarith

call it wound, call it beginning
the bird’s beak twisted into a small circle of awe
you called it cutting apart
I called it song

How the fuck do I know you wont poisoned me?

You don't, Alarith replied flatly, a slender brow quirking upwards.

@Sersie had no reason to trust her, just as Alarith had no reason to aid her; it were the tether of their shared scent along that compelled the druid to even give Sersie a second thought. She were one of Luther's warriors, and by the looks of it, far more seasoned and far more powerful than Alarith could ever hope to be. Even missing a leg she'd bore the scars of war and blight, and even the sea had not been strong enough to swallow her entirety. If mending such a woman empowered her to fight for these lands, then Alarith was more protected; thus, it was in a way beneficial to her to help Sersie. At worst, she could end her suffering.

For all I fucking know, you're just one of the whores the pale one has.

Think what you must, came her retort; deeper, vexed.

Alarith waited in patient, contemplative silence as the injured woman mulled her options. Idly, careful claws began to separate the herbs into neat bundles, each one for a markedly different purpose than the last. Mercifully, she'd very little reason to poison Sersie outright—she were no killer when she need not be, and Luther had found enough desire of this woman to keep her around after she'd pulled herself onto Ecrosia's shores from the distant sea. If she were to mysteriously wind up dead, all of the Mire would be in uproar, and it weren't very likely her actions would be seen favorably.

Thus, even as her claw lingered over the most dire of those herbs, she quickly willed the thoughts, and her hand, away. Instead, she reached for some aloe, eagerly clawing free a sizeable scoop, waiting only for Sersie's final permission. Perhaps a salve would ease her nerves first; something she'd not have to ingest, something she could learn to trust.

code by cala, art by rabbit