invite the wild in

There was something haunting in the way @Grit had looked at her when she thrust her face into her den. It was a ghost Opeia knew well, one that had settled into her soul too, to haunt its ragged edges. The children were unravelling. Each piece of them their mothers @Calypso and @Camelia had gently, carefully, lovingly sewn together, were being unpicked and unwound. Opeia was unspooling, she was splitting apart like stars, with a force enough to rend her soul. The piece of her Camelia and @Calcifer had kept together were falling away. As the teenager looked up at her sister, Grit, she knew that this ghost was loss. This is how it tore them apart, not with screams but with the steady picking of thread, untying their hearts and their bodies. Letting them fall into pieces.

So they searched together, angry, determined. With her return, with her wild angry sorrow Grit had once again lit the fire that had burned down to embers within Opeia. Every failed search along the black beach was another bucket of water upon the fire of her determination. Now the sea mocks them in the absence of the mist. Now it lets its bleak face gleam in the autumnal light as it laughs at them in a hiss. It pushes up the beach toward Calypso's limp form. Opeia, deprived of all sound, drinks in the sight. She does not hear the cries of desperation and of grief that are carried upon the wind - harrowing, broken, desperate. She is spared that. But she does see the wide and frantic eyes, the eyes filled with unshed tears, the mouths cut into gaunt, worried lines, the creased brows where dark anxiety cuts deep.

The youth, she and Grit, had been gathering herbs together, laying them out beneath the sun, drying them. Sharing snippets of what they remembered, pointing out shrubs, working out if they were useful, poisonous or useless. Opeia had busied herself, as together they distracted one another from their loss. Sometimes she would look at her fellow boatswain (because Opeia knew when to look and not be seen to be doing so - when others were distracted by noise or by voices) and wonder what monsters the mist had birthed beneath her eyes. Awful experiences from within the mist that would leave memories and emotions to grow as fast and invasively as bamboo in the mind of the sufferer. What bamboo tales lay within Grit?

But one day it happened. The moment the Galloway girl and Grit had been waiting for. Yet neither youth was truly ready for it. Neither were expecting the trauma of it. The mist unveiled its latest victim and shrank away with silent glee. As Opeia watches her father's Crew assemble, faces she barely knew emerging, all she can do is watch. At first she is intent, studying each and every body, waiting for that golden face.

It does not appear. Instead within her there is a tide growing and it is more fierce, more dangerous than the sea. It is storm-riddles, waves breaking across her bones, crashing into every piece of her. That wave is turmoil and calamity. And grief makes it rise and rise and rise. It is a tsunami that terrifies her. She swallows it down, as if she could fight it. But it keeps rising, inky black and full of desperation. It threatens to pour out of her mouth in a frantic, sobbing cry.

The mist gave back the wrong mother.

And suddenly she cannot be still. Suddenly she is restless, battling, fighting. The wrong mother, the wrong mother. But Calypso is Crew and Grit is her sister and she delights in their reunion.

But she is not my mother.

And there is shame, rotten and fetid and consuming.

The child bites it back, wrestles all of it down, down, down. Tamps it, wets it, crushes it, pushes it into a tomb she never knew she possessed and closed the stone upon it. Her sorrow was not for now. And with her chin held high, as if to stop drowning, she runs down the beach, down toward where the group is gathered. she passes the small garden she had made near to a small tidepool. And there she gathers some herbs she had that were drying and plucks some that were growing. She is rough with them, rougher than she knows she should be, but she clutches them and runs along the beach, toward her crew toward the injured mother lying broken upon the obsidian sand.

At last the Galloway teen slows, hre breath comes ragged but she pushes to the front and pauses as she sees her father bent over Calypso. She knows this, she knows it, but oh, it hurts. Her mother...

Opeia drops the leaves she gathered, berry-bright eyes gleaming up at the older, more knowledgeable healers. These plants her meagre contribution. Then her gaze turns to Grit, to the dead-dull gaze she presses upon her mother's body. And brokenly she steps forward, feeling that tomb leaking, the water rising within her. She presses her brow against Grit. Running her nose along her jaw - a nudge, an embrace. You have her, it implores. Then because she cannot stop herself, she is glancing back along the beach, with ill-fated hope, looking for another smaller, golden figure. Even if broken, she would take it.

Medic
+5 (+10) Dry or prepare herbs for use 1/2
+5 (+10) Collect herbs 1/2
+10 (+20) Heal a character's sickness or injury 1/2

@Voluspa @Hákon @Calhoun

TASKS: (DOUBLE XP) +20xp - Heal a character’s sickness or injury (1/2).
+10xp - Dry or prepare herbs for use (1/2).
+40xp - Save a character's life through healing (1/2).

When she'd heard the call, she'd run and run across the sands as fast as her little legs would carry her. In her haste she'd almost left her satchel behind. By the time she'd reached the scene she'd had a little time to settle her thoughts; centered herself, ready for whatever she might find. @Calhoun had sounded fraught, so whatever it was.... It wasn't good. The patient was not one she recognized, neither were the faces that flanked her. A few seemed medically trained, too; two youngsters, assisting, and an older, dark pelted medic. With a polite dip of the head she would regard the others, attention lingering on her Captain for a second longer than the rest - out of respect - before she moved forward to stand beside @Voluspa, not wasting any more time. "I can help," she assured, tone low and smooth in a bid to conceal the nerves that she was feeling. Clearly this woman, whoever she was, was important to her superiors; the life of any was precious, but in this case? The stakes were high. Poor @Calypso had suffered extensive wounds, and Francesca would take a second to study them; @Grit spoke of aloe, offering some up to the table, and Francesca shot the girl - both of them, as she could not ignore @Opeia - a reassuring smile. "Thank you." Pre-emptively she had already gathered some damp seaweed - knowing full well that dressings would be needed regardless of what sort of wounds they had - so she would place the wet plants at her paws, alongside the ones that had already been gathered by @Hákon. Then, she begun chewing some of the aloe in preparation to make a salve to place on the wounds before bandaging. She was keen to not step on any toes and take charge away from Voluspa - who had been the first on the scene - but four paws were better than two.

@Calypso smiled, but it is amongst that unfitting expression that voluspa found further guilt rolling in her belly. had they failed her, not being able to find her sooner? was there more that they could had done? could they have tried harder? the sigrun squinted as she pushed such thoughts away from the forefront of her mind, nose wrinkling, as her instructions hung intently upon the air between @Hákon, @Calhoun, and herself. they were not alone for long, however, as another shape traversed the sands in their direction -- and though she was unknown to voluspa, the satchel that was clung across @Grit's shoulder was memorable, and she knew it to belong to the medic that now laid sprawled at their feet. it could only mean that she was important, tethered to calypso in one way or another -- and that was good enough for her to accept her amongst their folds.

the next few moments were a blur, where bodies came and went and eyes lingered like haunting clouds across the horrid scene painted before them. @Opeia and @Francesca's arrivals were noted with a twist of her gaze and another nod of her skull, though voluspa found her mouth feeling quite dry, now, as the pressure began to mount, squeezing the air from her lungs in the process. she had taken the reigns, obliged to their call, and now calypso's wellbeing hung in the balance, perched ever-so heavily upon the valkyrie's shoulders. her moment of pause is clear in the way that her body goes rigid, muscles tensed and her gaze smeared vehemently upon calypso's figure, and her injuries, as she formed her plan of action.

snapping her from the self-imposed trance was hakon, who had returned from the quick scavenge and now placed the seaweed at the sigrun's paws. voluspa could not help but to try and meet his gaze, then, lips parted slightly as her mouth swelled with bile and intangible words. but, of course, after a lingering moment of silence, the apprentice would simply nod briskly, paws reaching forward as she sought to clasp a few of the strands between her toes and focus on what mattered, then and there. they had aloe, seaweed, and a few bundles of other herbs; it would be enough to care for her initially. it had to be.

inhale -- exhale

start tending to the wounds at the back, and i'll start at the front. aloe first, and then the seaweed and leaves. she said after having centered herself, speaking first to grit, and then to francesca, her tones hollow and yet firmed with duty. together, surely, they would be able to work quickly, and efficiently - for everyone's sake. see if she is able to eat some of this, it will help with any pain. her voice directed itself now to the rest of the group, or anyone who had a moment to spare and the focus to try feeding calypso some medicine. as she spoke, an unsheathed claw would pluck a few gnetum stems from her satchel, displaying it to whoever would be up for the task, before placing it at her side amongst the sands.

and it was then that she would get to work, carefully reaching for some of the aloe that grit had prepared, before beginning at calypso's shoulder. inhale, exhale. careful toes would smear the sap across the fresh injuries, before packing it down with a hearty layer of the dressings. repeat, repeat, repeat. she'll live. she said while she worked, if not somewhat gruffly, stubbornly, as if she were to will it to be true should vellen try and decide otherwise. they were lucky that the majority of calypso's injuries were shallow, but it was the quantity of them that pricked the hair along voluspa's nape, for they were almost sinister in both their design and delivery. does she have somewhere safe that she can be moved to afterwards? a final question, for now, as she made a point to swivel her gaze back towards hakon and calhoun, assuming that they would know what the best option was. inhale, exhale.

if you're lost, then i'll find you Whether he's earning @Hákon's judgement or disdain, he doesn't much care; it's not in his mind to consider how much the man feels othered, an outsider in @Calypso's world. He has only ever seen Hákon as the one on the inside, pulled closer into her orbit than anyone else — he is as to Calypso as Aegea was to Calhoun. He's never needed to question it to know; he could see it from a mile away. But in this moment, the tides are turned, and Calhoun keeps chattering for the glimpses of smiles upon her lips, trying in desperation to keep her conscious pull above the surface. He is distracted — and gratefully so — by @Voluspa's arrival, his words cutting short as she makes her assessment of the situation. She wears a gravely serious expression on her face, as do they all, and when her command has Hákon heading for the sea, Calhoun makes for the dunes. When he returns, he finds @Grit and @Opeia converging on the scene with similar supplies, and his heart lurches at the look his daughter wears. The mist, after all, has only returned one mother, and he doesn't have a single explanation he can offer as to why or where Camelia has gone. She simply has, without a trace — and Calhoun cannot fix it. He sighs lowly as he adds his gathered plants to the pile, stepping back enough to give Voluspa and @Francesca room to work. He is effectively useless at this point, watching on with a similar anxiety to the one that Hákon wears and doing his best to bite it down. He is grateful to be given something to do, taking the herbs that the Sigrún medic has supplied and sinking down into the sand before Calypso; frankly, he can't quite tell if she's at all conscious or not. "Caly?" he murmurs with a nose against her cheek, searching for signs of recognition. If she's awake enough to eat the herbs with assistance, he'll aid her; but if she's drifted into the deep of the void, then at least he can take comfort in knowing the pain of this world is far away for now. And then — she'll live. Calhoun breathes a low sigh of relief he didn't know he'd been holding in, pushing up onto his forepaws and meeting Voluspa's gaze. "Aye," he answers, nodding to the silhouette of Amani Cay behind her. "Tide's still goin' out," he mentions, assuming that lions who have been living along the ocean for all this time will understand the way the ocean comes and goes. At its lowest point, the water is barely more than puddle-deep, and they'll be able to carry her with relative ease. Back home, where she belongs.

code // art // do not use without permission

like the sea touches the soil calypso does not know how much time passes. for a moment she is lost to the sound of the ocean, to the lull of water upon the sand, the whoosh that seems to pull on her very soul. she times her breathing with it, in and out, in and out. not because it will do her ailing body good -- it will -- but because the ocean is as much home as the ones that she loves, as the island den. oh and what of her herbs! her garden! beorn and leviathan and all of the rest! she jerks, suddenly, as if she might fling herself from the sand and run to find them all. "i must --" cut off with a gurgle as he eyes come to rest, finally, on her daughter. saliva floods her mouth and almost instantly her cheeks are wet with tears. "little love.." so big, so grown, and though she had seen it in the mist it smacks her hard in the face, now. but then -- then! -- they scattered under @Voluspa's direction and calypso thumps heavy to the sand, sinking back in to the shadows of unconsciousness, a paw stretched in the direction her daughter had disappeared. a paw that was missing three toes. "I 'ken get more." her eyes snap open, again, and trace the lines of her daughter's face. there, then, is that same smile, ignorant of the bustle around them. aware, only, that they were here and the mist was gone and everything would be okay. "aye," as she finally pulled her gaze from grit and looked at them all in turn, "i will." everything would be okay.

code // art // do not use without permission

TASKS: (DOUBLE XP) +20xp - Heal a character’s sickness or injury (2/2).
+10xp - Dry or prepare herbs for use (2/2).
+40xp - Save a character's life through healing (2/2).

Francesca would be quick to act under the instructions of @Voluspa - she did not know this woman, but she was clearly connected to Calypso somehow and therefore, by proxy, the band. So together they would work on the wounds, with her attention focused on the hind section of the pirate woman. Peach and mauve backdrop was stained with crimson, and Francesca would make quick work of cleaning and dressing the area. By the time she'd finished applying the last patch of seaweed, and @Calhoun had administered the pain relief, @Calypso was beginning to come to. Francesca backpedalled a little in order to give the woman more room to orientate herself now that she was fully conscious. "Welcome back," she offered to the peach-pelted lioness - her superior - with a small smile. She would then send Voluspa a good-natured sidelong glance, the same smile remaining. "Well done." She did not need her praise, but Francesca would give it all the same. Credit where credit was due. Moving to stand nearer to Calhoun, Francesca would linger for a time, waiting to either be dismissed or directed to help transport Calypso back to safety. Back home.

FADE TO EXIT VIA ASSISTING GROUP

invite the wild in

Opeia studies the way the older lions work. Follows their treatments, takes a step back when they reach for the herbs she has brought. She moves as directed, almost monotonous. Since her eyes have shifted from Calypso and her father she does not let them return there. It is a blessing she does not hear the way Calypso whispers her greeting to her daughter. But she sees it, that exchange between mother and daughter. So much relief, so much grief. Joy, even in their sadness. Opeia recoils from them as if whipped. She drops all that she has been holding as she reverses slowly. Away from Grit, away from Calypso, away from where her father presses his nose to Calypso's wet cheek. She retreats, retreats, retreats. Until at last she spins, her herbs, her medic training, her family all dropped as she runs away down the beach, fleeing them. Fleeing the reality that her mother did not return.

+10 (+20) Heal a character's sickness or injury 2/2
-Exit-

under the weight of the stress and responsibility of these moments, voluspa surprised herself in managing to keep the majority of her composure and thoughts in tact. the others flocked willingly, thankfully, under her direction, and the sigrun could not help but to exhale a sigh of relief as they took turns in the diligent work, paws moving in unison to patch up as much as they could, and as quickly as possible, to ensure that calypso could be moved somewhere safe without causing further harm to her battered frame.

the next moments (seconds, minutes, hours?) felt akin to a blur, dark toes flexing, eyes shifting, breath hitching -- until, finally, it appeared as though the majority of the initial work had been done. it was an awful sight, to see the healer covered in a medicinal array of leaves, aloe, and seaweed, but voluspa took it for what it was, which was, simply, bittersweet. thank you, she said quietly to franscesca, appreciating the small nudge of approval, for she knew that calypso would have offered the same praise should she have been able. now, let's move her. came her final instruction, speaking in hoarse voice that did not sound quite like her own. nonetheless, she would not waste a second more before shifting to assist in moving the fallen medic, sticky claws scraping against the sands as she took the dutiful position at the woman's flank and assumed that the others would soon follow suit. her eyes could not help but to sweep over calypso's body again, however, taking it all in with a final display of pursed lips and burrowed brows. there was too much blood, too much mayhem, too much turmoil -- gods, what she would do for all of them to know peace once more. maybe not today, but perhaps tomorrow. exit.

if you're lost, then i'll find you Calhoun is not a man who is good at expressing when he is grateful, but he is — for Voluspa, Francesca, Hákon. Because the only thing that matters in this moment, in this instance of time, is Calypso. He doesn't care that they have existed in completely separate worlds, each a partition in her life; he only cares that there is still a life in there to save. A low breath of relief rumbles from his jaws to hear the affirmation, both from the Sigrún medic and then Calypso herself. Together, they carry the burden of her weight, a unified force for this brief instance in time. Together, they bring her home. exeunt calhoun

code // art // do not use without permission

like the sea touches the soil in and out, her breathing steadied by the tide, by the knowledge that she was surrounded by those she loves. those that she loves, and those that love her. calypso is comforted by this. comforted by knowing that @Grit is here, that she can touch her again, feel her breath beneath her paw. it is enough to know that they have survived their ordeal and that all they have left to do is heal. physically, mentally, emotionally... in all ways they could. it takes time for @Voluspa to finish, and calypso wants to shower her with praise. she wants to tell the medic how proud she is, how far she has come since that day on the mountain, in the snow. but the darkness rises to pull her under, and when her eyes close they do not open again. her breathing stays steady, in and out, and for the first time in months the druid is able to sleep. -exit-

code // art // do not use without permission