Date: September 9, 2000 (Aether: January 25, 3907)
Place: Practice Room - Delphic Citadel - Haven
Cast: Altair, Axel, Cyrene, Izak, Jana, Leif, Niamh, Niherlas, Starsong, Sven, Thorvald
Scene: The barbarian invaders are taken to Delphi for healing now that a truce has been reached.
Note: Dialogue in red indicates the language of the Aesir.

Practice Room - Delphic Citadel - Haven:
      Bare. Plain. There is no decoration here of any sort that might possibly be destroyed. The thick doors bar all sound and while footsteps could possibly echo on the undressed floor somehow the echos seem to be sucked away before they can reverberate. The silence has a distinct presence and pressure, as if all within is dampened by an invisible force. History, too, is felt here. No other room in the Citadel is like this one. While magic can be practiced within, nothing drawn upon here can leave the room. No earthquake will spread nor firestorm rage beyond the confines of each area of practice. It is safe.
      While stone is bare, it is not plain. The walls themselves show signs of subtle Shaping, the veins aligned in patterns that reveal themselves only when observed from a distance. Each corner of the room boasts a depression in the floor. One is filled with water, the next soil, the third bears the scorch-marks of fire and the last is woven with an intricate filigree maze that sings when wind is properly passed through it. In the center of the room is a large table filled with objects useful to other sorts of study--a crystal sphere and a mirror for those of the Sibylla caste and misshapen lumps of material suitable for Shaping.

What is usually a room for students has turned into a room for the sick and injured. Every inch of the practice room has been transformed into a makeshift infirmary -- the bookshelves have been taken over by herb pouches and mortar-and-pestle sets, the desks are pushed to the side, and every spare bit of floorspace has a mattress on it. The ordinary patients from the infirmary are squeezed in towards the back, their coughing and sputtering forming a muted hum of noise, as the wounded from the battle are shuttled in, one at a time.

Axel enters the Tower, though he still smiles, he's actually... somber. Or as close as he ever is. Walking slowly and looking around, arms around his companions. "Hai, boys, they'll be singing songs of us for a long time to come." His tone is slightly hushed. His steps are a little wobbly. Perhaps he should sit.

Jana comes in from the first floor.

Sven has wide eyes for everything as he follows the rest of his clansmen into the tower of legends. His gaze really can't get any bigger. The place is a far cry from the smoky, timber lodge he's accustomed to back home, where the furnishings are simple and basic and constructed largely from wood, bone, antler, or hide. Everything is so much more intricate here, and he soaks up the sights like a sponge. He's wholly unaware of his wounded arm by now, even though blood has dried and crusted across his forearm in a spidery pattern.

Cyrene settles against the wall on the far side of the room, folding her legs beneath her and her wings behind her as she sinks to the ground, head propped on her fist. She merely watches everyone with those odd eyes of hers, which seem somehow forlorn.

Leif seems to have been silenced by the fact that he is walking into a legend. Othin's eye... what a story he'll have when he gets back. Trying to be as blase about it as Axel, his reaction is closer to Sven's. Wide-eyed, he looks about as he limps in, pausing upon seeing Cyrene. A smile is tried and then forsaken as that just hurt too much.

The door is pushed open, and a harried little darkling Oracle emerges with her arms full of bandages. By Divanus... She nearly drops them all as she stares at the sight before her. Empyreans that aren't... Atlanteans that aren't... Wow. She looks about for any familiar face.

Oh, it's not that he's blase. Rather, Axel deals with his own awe in the way he deals with everything. Laughter and jokes. He settles onto a mattress, pulling his legs into a cross-legged squat and tucking his wings back behind him. It seems his sister was right after all. And then, he spots Jana and his smile really turns up a notch. This must be a magical place of power.

A small figure slips through the heavy door, pushing her way between the stream of patients and healers -- Starsong, shedding layers of fur and wool on her way, green eyes darting this way and that with a narrowed, professional gaze. Her eyes turn reluctant, then sad... and then, resolved, as she hovers by the door.

Taking a deep breath, the Sylvan girl lets her eyes drift out of focus, and then closed, and her head tilts, as if she were listening.

Axel has few serious injuries; a few pinions missing from his wings, a small wound on his left bicep and a larger gash on his left forearm, perhaps some bruised rips and small knot on his head where the Varati threw a rock (a rock!) at him and hit his helmet. And a bruise on his jaw. All in all, not a bad day's work.

Leif limps over to Cyrene, sitting down next to her. "Hail." Does she remember him from the other night? Granted, he wasn't so bloody then. His wings give a twinge as he tries to fold them out of the way... oh yeah, that one guy tried to set his wings on fire. Not too fun. But he still seems to be in a good mood... until he leans back only to jump up with a growl. What's on his back? His wings are in the way so he can't see the two throwing daggers that are embedded in his armor.

Liolya sits off to Cyrene's other side and seems to have dozed off for the moment. Cyrene turns all the attention of her odd black eyes upon Leif, surveying the blood and his wounds. His greeting is returned by a minute nod, the Rusalka canting her head to peer at him this way and that. A pale hand reaches out to touch one of the daggers embedded in his armor, blinking. The ignominy of it all brings a whisper of hysteria to her cold eyes and she bites her lip.

The adrenaline from the battle has long ago worn off, and Sven is feeling muzzy-headed and tired. But he doesn't want to relax his guard around these strange people. Thorvald may have promised that they meant no harm, but he's not so trusting. He gravitates automatically toward Axel, finding comfort in the older man's presence. He's not so young that he'll clamber onto the same cot though -- that's what a child would do. Instead, he selects an adjacent one and settles onto it, cross-legged, staring about him with that same wide-eyed, quizzical look.

As if a great wave had swept through the room, the Sylvan girl slams back against the wall behind some invisible force, her breath rushing out of her in a deep, ragged gasp. She stands there, panting, for a long moment, as she slowly droops down and the color begins to return to her suddenly ashen face. One last gasp escapes her, nearly a sob, and then it is gone.

Starsong gives her head a shake, sliding herself upright along the supporting plane of the wall, and then, finally, opens her eyes. "All right," she says, her voice faint but steady. Both hands brace, and push back, and then she is standing up again, a bit wobbly, but on her own, and she steps forward into the room.

She lets her eyes lose their focus for one more tiny second, and when she returns her eyes to the here and now, she is facing towards Leif. A few steps is all it takes to carry her over to him, and she hovers, almost warily, a pace or two away. "Ch -- ave -- um..." Her attempt at a greeting fizzles before it has even begun, and she opens her mouth again to say simply, "I'm here to heal you."

Axel gives a wink to his younger companion and claps him on the shoulder. "Amazing... this place most be truly what the legends say. See? One blessed of Othin." He gestures, pointing toward Jana and giving her the unmistakable look of interest that is not academic and crosses cultural lines. "And over there, the healer. She appears to be from Aelfheim." Another gesture, this one towards Starsong.

Leif tries to look over his wings to what Cyrene reaches for, but it's like a dog chasing his tail... he could turn and turn and never find it. Movement catches his eye and he falls into a slight crouch, reaching for his hammer that isn't there. Now what? Now, he knows they're supposed to trust these odd ones, but... turquoise eyes glance to Axel and Sven as if they knew any more before turning back to the wingless one. She looks rather harmless, so he relaxes, straightening and then sitting back on the cot. He doesn't seem to understand her words though.

Cyrene shifts her alien gaze to Starsong briefly then back to Leif, placing a hand upon the arm that moves in battle-trained reflexes. "She will heal you. She healed me," she says quietly.

Sven turns his wide-eyed look toward Jana, and he blinks a few times in rapid succession. "Raven's wings!" he breathes to Axel. "One of Othin's? Here?" Then, following the older man's pointing finger, he takes in Starsong's appearance next, and this time his lips part in surprise. "An... Aelfling?" he gasps in amazement. "I thought they were only legends..."

After she's gotten over some of her shock, Jana hastily bends to retrieve what few bandages that had fallen. Nervousness is quite evident in her features, and she tries not to look too closely at the blood and gore covering these 'people.' Now that she has spotted Starsong in the crowd, she hurries over to the girl with quick steps, indigo skirt flapping about her ankles. She also tries to ignore the looks thrown at her. "Starsong!" she calls out, as quietly as possible, but still wanting to be heard.

Leif looks to the hand on his arm and then nods. All right. He'll try to relax then... even if he does watch the odd-looking one with magic a bit warily. Hearing the other's conversations, he turns to them once more, and back to the strange females. One of Othin's and an Aelfling... maybe he can relax a bit more. "Don't heal away the scars..." he instructs Starsong.

Axel grins and nods to his young charge. "As did I. It seems Svala was wiser than we. She believed when we did not. Let us hope the Fates bless her for it." His gaze leaves the Aelfling and moves back to the dark-winged Jana, tracking her every move. "Perhaps she is here to heal us through pleasure?" The gore-covered Aesir barks a laugh.

The flood of foreign words rushes over Starsong, and the girl's green eyes grow more confused and frustrated with each unfamiliar syllable that reaches her pointed ears. Finally, all she can do is sigh and put out her hands in a gesture that is at once a helpless shrug and a demonstration that her hands are free of weapons. "I'm called Starsong," she says slowly, motioning to herself as she speaks the word that signifies her name. "I'm here to heal you."

And now her hand motions to the gash in Leif's leg -- and then her other hand comes down to join the first, the fingers folding together in a binding, sealing motion. Her eyes seek out the stranger's, searching for signs of comprehension, almost pleading in her earnest attempt to make herself understood.

And then another, familiar voice sounds across the room, and the Sylvan girl's head lifts and turns towards it as a smile of relief floods across her face. "Jana! Oh, thank all the spirits you're still here!"

Shuffling across the room as quickly as possible, Jana tosses a wary, wide-eyed stare back at the barbaric Empyreans. A shiver runs down her spine at their gazes. Looking at Leif briefly, the little black-winged Oracle murmurs, "Yes, I am... By the gods, what is going on? Are you all right? And why... why are they staring at me so?" It's terrifying, to be quite blunt.

But before the Sylvan has a chance to answer, Jana is talking again, "I brought bandages, if you need them. Or perhaps I should tend to someone else? I think I can manage to bind up a few wounds."

Leif looks back to the Aelfling as she speaks and tries to say her name as well, "Schtarrzongh?" Is that right? He seems to comprehend the concept of healing, especially since Cyrene explained it all. But how to explain to her about the scars? Ah... there's that one on his arm. A sleeve is pushed back as he shows a rather large scar, running down half his lower arm. Scars are good, ja?

As the dark-winged one turns to look at him, Leif offers a sort of lopsided smile. The side of his face that was cut is now hurting a bit... and the dried blood isn't letting him use that side overly much.

Sven leans over to whisper something to Axel, and his voice shakes just a little. "Axel? Do you think.... maybe this is Valholl? And that they're the battle-maidens here to tend to us? I... didn't think it would look like this." He raises his eyes to stare around the room again. "And where's the mead? I'm powerful thirsty."

Leif glances to Sven and Axel. "I think she likes me..." Well, that puffs him up a bit.

They stare at her beauty of course, and in wonderment. Likely different from the scorn Empyreans of Haven would visit on her. "Tell her to move her hand higher, you lucky bastard," Axel calls out to Leif in jest. He then winces a little and looks down to check his rough-shod bandage. He did a piss-poor job of it. And then he goes about the process of trying to remove his chainmail. That's going to hurt. Answering Sven through clenched teeth, "No, I don't think this is Valholl. Not enough smelly men. And it's too clean. Plus, I don't remember anyone running me through."

Cyrene listens to the words of the Aesir around her, folding her arms about her frail form with a shiver. Let them talk of their after-life and admire the women. She... she wishes only for the comfort of her Jhoi, forbidden her now. Nothing could be crueler.

"I don't either," Sven replies with a sigh to Axel. If he'd been struck down in battle, he'd surely like to remember it. So maybe his theory that this is Valholl is not quite sound. But it is certainly a strange place, full of wonders. Not the least of which are the dark-winged young woman and her green-eyed, wingless companion. The boy can't help but stare -- a touch enviously -- as his friend Leif is tended to by one of them. Maybe they'll be attracted by his scar. It's not a scar yet, but it will be. He pulls his ripped sleeve a bit higher and prods at the laceration with one dirty finger.

A little wince tightens Starsong's lips as Leif displays the evidence of injuries past... and another, sharper, as he attempts to smile through his injured face. "No!" she protests, whipping back towards him and away from Jana with sudden concern as the reflected pain darts through her. "No -- I -- I want to heal it!" Helplessly, she opens and closes her hands, as if searching for something to take hold of, until finally, she just reaches out, running a finger along the slash in Leif's cheek -- and at her touch, the pain vanishes.

Axel's hand strikes out like a snake and slaps Sven's hand as he prods his wound. "You'll infect it. And then you'll lose the arm and the scar." He's seen that happen to many times. And the youngster has much to learn. He finally gets out of the heavy mail and works on his heavy over-tunic.

The pain may go away, but what about the scar, woman? Leif can't see his face... is she leaving it? A hand is waved to the others to get their attention... he doesn't dare talk yet. Well? What is she doing to him?

Uncertain of what to do now, without her friend's guidance, Jana decides to just use her best judgement. So... what now? After ditching most of her fresh bandages on a passing Novice, leaving a few in her hands, she approaches one of the other Aesir. Axel. Watching him struggle with his tunic, and noting the shoddily-bandaged wound, she murmurs a quiet, "Let me help you?" If she knew better, she'd simply drop her things and run, but she doesn't. Figuring he can't understand her, she reaches out to tap the man gingerly upon the arm, then point down at his wound.

Walking rather briskly, on the border of running, come two Soldat carrying a litter between them. Upon the litter lies an Empyrean Hound, looking only conscious enough to grimace in pain, the broken end of a spear embedded into his upper chest armor. Judging from his rank insignia, he appears to be a Commander. They begin looking for a place to set him before going out for more wounded...

The smell of blood is heavy in the air, the wounded scattered about the converted practice room. To one side sit Axel and Sven, with Jana approaching, offering to help Axel out of his shirt. Along another wall, Starsong heals Leif, beside whom sits an alien woman, the Rusalka, Cyrene.

Sven starts at Axel's slap, and complains sullenly, "Ow!" He wrinkles his nose and bends his head again, but he doesn't go poking at the wound anymore. He just admires it. It looks really icky. He glances up to see if that dark-winged woman might be drawn over by his obvious badge of bravery -- that wound makes him a man, doesn't it? But no, Jana's paying attention to Axel. Sven frowns grumpily and slumps on his cot.

Axel looks up at the tap on his arm and he smiles his most winning smile. The blood and other body fluids like spinal juices shouldn't detract, now should they? His helmet is long gone and his hair is still braided. He looks to his wound. He nods his assent. "You're welcome to undress me, anytime," he offers her. How can she refuse? He then points to Sven. "Him first, though go easy, he's a tad-might inexperienced." He's too taken by the black-wing to catch Leif's frantic plea for attention.

When Starsong's hand is withdrawn, Leif's face is completely healed -- only the streaks of old blood remain to indicate where the wound used to be. And the Sylvan girl's face looks much better too -- her look of tension is replaced by satisfied accomplishment. "There," she says, her voice low and soothing. "Doesn't that feel better?"

Cyrene glances up as Starsong draws back, still hugging herself. But a wry grin comes. "I don't think she understood the part about the scar, Leif."

Thorvald steps into the doorway of the room, having come from the Aesir's longboat. He has washed the blood and gore from himself (mostly), but refused all but basic treatment for his injuries. Cuts, scrapes, and nearly-miss death wounds abound.

Jana visibly pauses at Axel's words, not having the slightest clue as to what he just said. But she follows his pointing figure to study Sven, and she mumbles, "Oh... uhh... Oh." Yeah, whatever. Briefly, she bends to set down her bandages, then pauses to study the wound more closely. "Water... I should get water to wash this."

A hesitant smile is given the man, and Jana scurries off to find a bowl of clean water. Moments later, she is back and now gingerly reaches out to assist the man in finishing getting off his tunic. Very hesitantly, though. She looks terrified that the man might grab her and do something awful to her.

Leif reaches up to feel at his face, expecting to find a nice ridge of scar there... and his hand freezes, just as Cyrene speaks. "What?" The skin is unbroken... the beard whole. "By all th' bloody gods!" he roars, scowling at the pretty healer. "What sort o' bloody magicks d'ye have? No' t'leave a man his scars?" He tries to scoot away from Starsong, "Ye don't touch m'leg, y'hear? Damned bloody magicks... healin' too much!" Yes, it feels better, but now he has nothing to show for it! That would have been a great scar!

And just as fast as the strange, foreign man moves away from her, Starsong darts back, hands flying up in an instinctive gesture of self-protection as his voice booms out in anger. "What?" she cries, eyes wide and frantic and bewildered. "What is it?"

Thorvald's face slowly contorts into a frown -- does he ever smile? -- at Leif's outbursts. He slowly turns his gaze towards Starsong. "We are a proud people," he says in a rumbling, accented voice. "Scars are honor."

Sven blinks a few times at Leif's outburst, and then he notices that his friend's scar is gone, erased away by the healer's touch. His mouth forms an 'o' of surprise, and then he blinks, looking down at his own arm. Oh no! They'll take his scar too! The boy abruptly scoots back on his cot, feathers bristling as he settles against the wall. He earned that wound! And he's not about to let some Aelfling erase it!

Cyrene exhales a relieved sigh. Finally, someone who can understand everyone. A smile is given Thorvald and a glance is spared both Leif and Starsong curiously.

Axel watches the woman bend and then watches her fetch the water. My, she looks nice, swaying beneath her clothing. When she returns to tend to him, he shakes his head in the negative. Knitting his brow. Ah, there's Thorvald. "Thor, you old horse, tell this lovely one to tend to Sven first. And tell her to leave a scar for Othin's sake." He heard the outburst from Leif. Silly Aelflings.

Axel then gestures to Sven for added emphasis.

Against a wall, the two Soldat find a place for their charge. They set the commander down carefully, transferring him from litter to blanket. One of the Soldat then looks up, taking notice of Jana. He walks closer to her, taking her ear a moment and whispering something about her cousin being here with serious wounds. He motions towards said commander, before moving back to the litter. The pair of Soldat take it out to get more wounded.

For the second time in this long day, Starsong finds herself lowering her hands slowly, as tension seeps out of her, turning towards Thorvald with eyes in which relief mingles with wariness. "Oh," is all she can say, the simple word dropping lamely into the tense silence. "But -- but if his wounds aren't treated, they could get infected... it would get much, much worse!" The Sylvan girl's protest is weakened a bit by the tremor in her voice that drives it a note or two up from its normal pitch, but her healer's assurance is still there.

Leif looks to Thorvald and then to the Aelfling healer, "Don't want any healing if'n I'm not gonna have anything t'show for gettin' 'em!" He scowls fully as the cut in his face is gone. Damn shame, too. "What's she sayin'?" he then asks his chieftain, wary of the little healer now.

Thorvald walks over to the other Aesir. "She didn't know," he says. "They are not a warlike people here, I think. Not like us, at least. She's worried you'll get infected."

Cyrene watches them all sullenly, muttering to herself. "Seawater would heal it."

Turning to Starsong, Thorvald continues, speaking slowly and choosing his words carefully. "We are used to wounds," he tells her. "We know what can happen. Where we are from, we know how to heal without magic. My men need healing, yes, but do not rob them of their scars." He nods to Cyrene, and moves over to her, to see how she's doing.

Her cousin is wounded? Jana backs off a few steps from Axel, eyes going to where the Soldat had pointed. But what can she do? She's no healer. And if it's serious, he needs a Caducean's attention. Worriedly, the Oracle lifts her voice again, "Starsong! Altair... he..." She points in his direction, adding a plaintive, "Please?"

Leif sniffs and glares at the healer, "Does she haveta heal it all th' way?" At Cyrene's comment about seawater, he involuntarily turns green. "No! No more seawater fer me... no' fer a while." Just the thought of getting on that boat turns his stomach.

Cyrene lifts her flat, pale face, graced with too-large black eyes to regard Thorvald, the angles softening. "You are wounded..." She says quietly. "Where did you go?"

Axel laughs again at Leif and his sea-sickness. When the dark-wing seems distressed, his smile fades a bit. To cheer her up, he gives her backside a light pat. A gesture any Aesir woman would appreciate as affectionate. "What worries the raven-winged lovely?" Directed at no one in particular. He seems content to sit there bare-chested and bloody.

For a long moment, the small Sylvan girl holds the huge winged man's eyes steadily, listening as he speaks, until finally, Starsong nods. "All right," she says, the words more sighed than spoken. "I will... make sure that they keep their scars." Her eyes flicker over to Leif, flinching ever so slightly at the hostility they meet there. "Please... tell them that I will make sure of that? And... that I'm sorry."

Her apology is cut off abruptly, though, by Jana's cry. "Coming, inkana!" Starsong calls, her voice lifting to reach across the room to the Empyrean girl. One more long look is given to Thorvald, steady and curious, and then she is off again, skipping between cots and blanket-rolls towards the wounded Altair.

Altair growls rather loudly from where he has been placed, clutching at that spearpoint shoved into his chest. "DON'T--... rob them of their scars... Badges of Honor... Heal the underlying tissues onLY--" He grimaces again, that wound causing him great pain. He retains some consciousness, it would seem. More, perhaps, than he was letting on earlier...

Thorvald turns back to Leif and Axel, but mostly Leif. "The Aelfling apologizes, and promises not to take your scars when she heals," he says, translating Starsong's words. All this is making his head hurt. He shrugs to Cyrene, looking at his own cuts. "What are these?" he asks. "Little scratches. I cleaned them." He motions to Sven, Leif, and Axel. "Their wounds, are good wounds. I doubt I'll get any good scars out of this!" He seems disappointed, and looks to Altair. "Now that," he says approvingly, "will be a great scar, if he lives!"

A hand to her rump? Patting it? Jana yelps in surprise and sheer... horror. How dare he touch her like that! Backing away quickly, her mouth a perfectly rounded 'o,' she stares at Axel in wide-eyed indignation and terror. Just what's next? Her breath catches in her throat, and she folds her wings up as tightly as possible against her back. "No," she states as firmly as she can, a tremble in her voice. He may not understand her word, but hopefully he gets the gist of it.

Cyrene falls silent again, thin arms wrapped about herself as she leans slowly from side-to-side, humming a note or two beneath her breath as she watches. Wings unfold, dull in the dry air.

Leif seems mollified enough. "All right... she c'n come back 'n heal me." But the shout from the other cot draws his attention and he sits up to try and see. Yes, that would make quite the scar... one to tell his grandchildren about. "Wi' all th' magickin', he'll most likely live." That's what he thinks anyhow... could be right, could be wrong.

Axel looks up innocently at the frightened Jana. "You have a lovely backside." He tries to wipe some grime from his face and smile at her again. He looks over his shoulder at his friend and Chieftain. "What? What'd I do?" Really! What kind of battle maiden would be so squeamish. He shrugs his wing and just keeps smiling at her.

Sven grins at Jana's reaction and shoots Axel a smug look. "Maybe you smell too bad for her," he suggests. Oh, the boy can be a sharp-tongued little brat at times -- it's a wonder Axel and Svala put up with him. He looks over toward Jana and motions to her, to see if he'll have any more luck than the older Aesir did. He's even trying to copy Axel's leer -- and the lad's all of fourteen!

A quick, protective look is shot towards Jana, but as Starsong sees that the Empyrean girl is in no immediate danger, she satisfies herself with a murmured, "It's all right, inkana... he didn't mean any harm," as she slips down to her knees next to Altair's cot. "Shhh...." she murmurs, putting one hand to his forehead, the other to his battered chest. "It's all right... I'll take care of it..."

Despite the severity of the Empyrean man's wounds, there is almost a hint of relief in Starsong's voice, as she returns to the familiar ground of healing those she knows, and whose ways she knows.

Leif bursts out laughing as the raven-winged Empyrean moves away from Axel. "Th' boy's right!" Boy? He's all of a few years younger. "I'd bet yer too old. I'm thinkin' she might like one younger... but no' too much younger." Like himself. Straightening, he also smiles at Jana.

Thorvald doesn't grin at Axel and Jana, though there's some mirth in his eyes. "He was," the Aesir rumbles, "trying to be nice." There's a shrug. He turns to Cyrene again, looking her over carefully for wounds. In case he missed any, perhaps.

Cyrene bears none, having been healed earlier by Starsong. She merely seems sick at heart, the look in her eyes forlorn as the rocking continues.

Axel simply joins in the raucous laughter. Why be somber? The battle is over and they've lived through it to face another some day. He spreads his wings and flexes them, looking from one to the other to see what sort of shape they are in. "Perhaps she does. But if she wants someone who will bring her pleasure and last longer than the time it takes to swing an axe, she'll be wanting me!" Really boys, do you think you can out-brag Axel?

Altair's hand comes up quickly to grab at Starsong's forearm, his grip tight. "They're--" He swallows hard, having a tough time keeping things down. "...warriors. Barbaric only those that don't understaND--" His eyes close tight as he cringes heavily, his body looking like it wants to collapse in on itself into fetal position. Slowly, he relaxes again, his eyes opening on Thorvald, a quiet "Thank you," murmured to him for a comment he couldn't possibly understand...

Niherlas stands in the doorway of the makeshift Infirmary, and what had been a curious look on his face quickly turns into a dark scowl. "Thorvald, son of Dreng," he calls out in a strident voice as be moves into the chamber, stepping over the several wounded.

Thorvald stands near Cyrene, and gently lays a rough and calloused hand on her shoulder. "Mother of my grandson," he says softly, "What troubles you?" At Niherlas' entrance, he looks up, brown eyes eying the Estrel.

Thorvald says "Tower Master. Greetings."

Staring warily at these barbaric Empyreans, Jana backs off a few paces more. She can't understand a word that's being thrown about, and by the gods... she probably doesn't want to. Thorvald's explanation does not mollify her horror, and her gaze drops away to study the leering faces around her. She looks like she might simply run in terror... but then she catches Niherlas' voice. Can you say relief? She turns to meet him, eagerly crossing the room to get closer to the man.

With one swift, sure, motion, the spear lifts from Altair's chest, pulled by Starsong's hand. By the time the bloody point clatters to the floor beside her, she is already sending floods of aether into the Empyrean man, lifting the damaged tissue of his lung, clearing his breathing, easing his pain, all the actions taking place at once, it seems.

The Sylvan girl's angular face is drawn with even sharper, tenser lines as she works, growing paler by the second, but still the pace of her work does not cease, even at Niherlas's entrance. Only after another long, tense moment, does she let the air rush out of her lungs, and allow her shoulders to droop and her head drop forward as she gasps, "Done!"

Cyrene looks as if she might reply to Thorvald's question, but the interruption by Niherlas forestalls any words from the Rusalka's mouth. She continues to sit, watching quietly.

"Your man, there," Niherlas nods in Axel's direction, "Does he speak our tongue?"

Leif leans a little towards Sven, "Y'know, th' older ye get, the shorter it lasts..." He then looks to Axel, "Isn't tha' so? Figured ye'd know..." The grin fades a bit at the appearance of that winged one who spoke at the battle. Where's his friend? The dark, wingless target?

Axel nods back to Niherlas. And gives him a smile. What a nice niece the man has. Except for the being terrified bit. Really, she should relax.

Sven's wound is no longer bleeding, but he still ought to get it cleaned up; he's wary of having that green-eyed 'Aelfling' touch it, for fear that she'll steal his scar away. Hopping up from the cot, the boy starts prowling around the room. He needs some water, some cloth with which to bind the injury... but it's also just an excuse to poke around. Hopefully, his elders will be too busy talking to notice his investigation.

Sven shoots a brief grin and a knowing look in Axel's direction.

Thorvald gives Cyrene's shoulder a little squeeze. It's all the comfort he can give her now. He'll ask again, later. "No," he tells Niherlas. "Not many of us do. I learned some out of boredom, at sea." He walks over to Starsong, and offers the little Aelfling an arm to support. She looks worn out, and it's the least he can do for tending his men and letting them keep their scars.

Axel glances over at Leif and snorts. "You show your ignorance in matters of love." He's a stallion, you see. Ask any woman from the village and they'll tell you. Give him a week or so and Jana might tell you as well.

Niherlas' stern expression eases some at Thorvald's treatment of Starsong, "Then tell him, if you will, that the girl he touched is of my family. She is not pleased, and I am sorely displeased. Will you tell him that?"

Altair looks to Starsong, slowly beginning to relax as his wound is healed, his hand kinda limply falling back down onto the blanket. He blinks a little, looking about and towards Niherlas and Thorvald. "Starsong... What's happened? I rushed to the scene of battle, and before I even had a chance to get info on what was happening, I found this spear shoved in my chest..." He motions towards the spearhead on the floor. "I've been drifting in and out of consciousness ever since..."

Now that she's simply at a greater distance from the leering men, the tense set of Jana's shoulders relaxes a little. Once she reaches the relative safety of the area behind her uncle, she takes a glance over towards Starsong and Altair. A nervous look is thrown back towards the tight cluster, and she shuffles warily to stand at the Commander's cot. Her eyes do not leave the sight of Niherlas, Thorvald, and Axel for long.

Leif seems to be following Sven's example of looking at his wound, but not roaming. It's a little harder when one has a cut from a broken sword in one's thigh. Opening the hole in his pants a bit more, he inspects the wound carefully, looking about for some water to clean it. Too bad it's not a scar that would be seen all the time... like the one on his face would have been.

Sven's curious grey-green gaze wanders over toward Niherlas as the man speaks so sternly to his Hoevding, Thorvald. Who is this man? He recognizes him from the Rialto, and he seems to hold some position of prominence in this strange, overgrown village. But Sven can't see what's so impressive about him, and a smile flickers across his lips as he points, stage-whispering to Axel and Leif, "Look! He has no beard! Can he not grow one?" Not that Sven should talk -- it'll be a long time before he has anything approaching a beard.

Thorvald looks puzzled at Niherlas. They don't like to be touched? What a strange people ... he withdraws his arm a little, from Starsong, unless she seems to wish it. "Why ..." Thorvald shrugs. "I will tell him." He looks to Jana, shrugs. What a strange folk. And so small! Maybe it has to do with why they all look like women?

Thorvald turns to Axel. "The dark-winged little one did not like you touching her," he says, relaying Niherlas' message. "And the Delphi master, her uncle, was upset, too. I don't think these wee folk like to be touched." He shrugs, a great rolling gesture that includes his wings as well.

"Shhh... shh..." Starsong murmurs. "Just rest... it's all right... you're safe now." Like a mother with her child, the Sylvan girl gently smooths the Empyrean man's disheveled hair back from his forehead. "I hardly know myself what happened..."

Motion in the corner of her eye draws the young healer's attention, and Starsong looks up with a flickering, fluttering glance. "Jana," she pronounces, the weary lines of her face relaxing into a smile. "Please... tend to Altair, while I see to the others?" And as she looks up, she catches sight of the other one standing near her as well. The green eyes flicker warily for a moment, as Starsong looks up and up and up to the great red heights of Thorvald's head... and then, slowly, she reaches up to place one small, trusting hand in his.

Axel looks over at Thorvald, waiting for the translation. He's simply smiling at the Tower Master and watching the two women; aelfling and dark-wing alike. He lets out another laugh at Sven and tugs his own beard. Then he hears the translation. "Perhaps she prefers women? That could explain why the men seem so frail, they try to emulate women?" It's a wild theory. But nonetheless, he stands and walks toward Niherlas and Jana, kneeling on one knee as if asking forgiveness for his transgression.

Cyrene cants her head to one side, continuing in her silent observations with too-large eyes.

The black-winged Oracle is not so quick to trust. Not after the horrifying dreams, the present sight of bloodshed and her wounded cousin, and that most offensive pat to her rump. Jana would sooner trust a Varati. Warily, she watches, whilst one hand reaches down to touch Altair's shoulder. Her eyes eventually come to rest upon Niherlas as Axel goes down on one knee.

Leif watches the display, shaking his head, "Waste, if'n ye ask me." Damn shame, too. Of course, his mouth quirks a bit as he watches Axel try and apologize, "Does he think this'll get 'im under her skirts?"

Niherlas looks down at Axel, opens his mouth to speak... then stops, and looks to Thorvald. "If this is an apology, what is the response of your people?"

Sven goes back to rifling around the room for something with which to clean and bind his wounded arm. And maybe, unbeknownst to the others, he'll filch a few things as well, to examine later with greater leisure. He'll not leave this raid without any booty!

Thorvald folds his hand gingerly around Starsong's, and leads her towards a chair. "You should rest," he says, though if she does so or not is up to them. You can lead an Aelfling to a chair but you can't make them sit, the saying goes. His eyes turn to Cyrene again, worried for her. Then, Niherlas. "Touch him on the shoulder if you accept the apology," he says. "Otherwise, turn away."

Niherlas nods, and half-turns to Jana, "Come, niece. Forgive him, and I shall do the same." He puts his own arm loosely about Jana's shoulders, and draws her forward.

Aiiiiiiiie. She has to touch him again? Hasn't there been enough damage done? Jana doesn't dare speak against her uncle, though. Not out of fear of him, but rather... what might happen if she didn't accept the apology that was so 'graciously' presented. So she resists temptation to balk like a mule, and once standing before Axel, she takes a deep breath. Then she leans forward to place a simple touch upon his shoulder.

Altair just blinks as he looks between all these strange people, the words he doesn't recognize flying through the air like bees. He looks up to Starsong, nodding to her. "Thank you..." he says before looking to Jana, trying to sit up but his battle-weary muscles refuse to go far without giving aches and pains in return.

"Gods, it feels like I've been hit with Zeus' own thunder... Cousin, could you please tell me what in the name of Apollo is going on here?" Altair blinks, before shaking his head and observing the scene again, one of the barbarians kneeling so. He should have his eyes checked... He waits to see what is happening...

Niamh walks in slowly, glancing about at all those in the cots, his eyes widening a bit upon seeing Altair there. Well. Bespectacled eyes narrow slightly upon seeing Jana with the new ones, but he holds his place for the time being. After all, he couldn't do anything anyhow.

When Niherlas is done with whatever ritual this is, Niamh asks, "Estrel... is everything all right?" A glance is given to the leader of these invaders who stands so close to Starsong...

Wavering, swaying, most of her slight weight pulling down on Thorvald's arm, Starsong makes her way to her feet. "No..." she protests, her voice weaker by the second. "No... there are too many other people who need to be taken care of..." Still, she can offer no resistance to the huge, winged stranger as he steers her towards a chair. And, true to the saying, the little 'Aelfling' does not sit, but remains wavering with one hand on the back of the chair. "Thank you... but I have to keep going."

Axel crouches, down on one knee, fingers splayed out at his side. At Jana's touch to his shoulder, he keeps his head bowed, and smiles to himself. Perhaps soon her touch will not be so timid. Thankfully the blood from his wound is no longer dripping. And the smell really isn't that bad. Once the Tower Master has touched his shoulder, he'll rise, give each another smile and walk back to his cot. See? Nice barbarian.

Niherlas smiles. There, that wasn't so bad, was it? Don't worry, Jana, Niherlas will give you lots of soap to wash that hand with later. But for now, the Estrel reaches down to briefly clasp Axel's shoulder, then removes his hand. "There." That done, he turns to Jana again, "Jana, could you go to the Infirmary for me? There are herbs in the upper left cabinet of the work table... I think we'll need those later."

Thorvald shrugs to Starsong, and moves back to where Cyrene sits. Perhaps he can comfort her by being near her? His eyes, no longer flashing, look around the room. Where is Liolya?

Axel knits his brow and rubs his shoulder as he walks back to the cot, wings rustling in vague agitation. His wounds must be worse than he thought.

Liolya rests a few feet away, but she is curled into slumber and quiescent. Cyrene turns her head to look at Thorvald quietly, speaking no words, but offering an Aesir smile. She glances back at the others, quiet in her curiosity.

Soap! That's what Sven finds. A little cake of it. He lifts the bar to his nose, sniffing suspiciously, then darts out his tongue for a taste. "Phwagh!" That was louder than he intended, and the boy casts a quick glance over his shoulder before swiftly pocketing the soap. He can figure out what it's for later -- whatever the Aesir use for soap (and presumably, they do use it) must come in a different variety.

As nothing is being torn apart and there are no new wounds that he can see, Niamh figures that everything is fine. "Is there anything I can do to help?" he asks of the healers, his eyes catching sight of Sven's 'collecting.' His scowl back in place he goes over to the youth and orders, "Put that back."

"As you wish, Uncle," replies the girl, without hesitation. Hell, she'll bring him all of the cabinet's contents if it meant she got to leave this place for awhile. Jana backs away rather quickly, almost stumbling on another body lying on the floor. Spinning quickly, skirts whirling about her ankles, she places a quick touch upon Altair's shoulder in a last gesture of comfort and farewell-for-now. A glance is thrown over her shoulder at Starsong, then at Niamh. But she hurries. Yes, the quicker she's gone, the better. Hope you don't need those herbs anytime soon, uncle.

Leif leans back and then straightens once more... are those knives still in his armor? Seems they were never pulled out. With a growl, he goes to lay on his stomach on the cot... maybe that pain will go away if he does so. This way, he can watch the entire room...

Sven shoots a look over his shoulder at Niamh, automatically cringing -- until he remembers that he's not a slave to some cruel jarl anymore. He straightens, wings evening out, and turns to look up at the strange, dark-skinned man. He, noticeably, does not remove the soap from his pocket, but the fact that he doesn't know the language isn't a feasible excuse; the Varati's tone was unmistakable. Best to feign innocence, which a widened pair of grey-green eyes can accomplish nicely.

Thorvald raises an eyebrow to Sven. "No looting," he rumbles, nodding to Niamh. "I have told them we would not raid, in return for peace. Even in small ways." He gazes upon Liolya for a moment or two, assuring himself that she's all right, as well. He has more to speak of with his own men, but that is better saved for later, when they are alone.

With a deep, indrawn breath that seems to reach down to the tips of her fur-moccasinned toes, Starsong pushes up off the chair, and with slow, slightly unsteady steps, moves back out into the fray. The nearest cot comes none too soon, for the Sylvan girl sinks swiftly down beside it, reaching out to place a hand on the new winged-stranger-patient's head even before her knees have hit the floor.

Another deep breath marks the girl's passage from consciousness into her faraway unfocused healer's space, and for a long moment, Starsong sits silently. When she finally withdraws her hand, the patient is breathing more easily, although he has not regained consciousness... and through his ripped shirt can be seen the scar that she has left, bold and white on his arm.

Is it worth it to press a bar of soap? But then again, if he doesn't, they might go around taking more important things. Niamh makes a mental note to himself to start locking the door to his chambers. Noticing the leader's nod at him, he tries again, "Put it back now." So he's not as polite as Niherlas... they'll have to deal.

"Everything is well, Estrel," Niherlas finally replies to Niamh, "A brief misunderstanding, quickly cleared." He watches Jana leave, then turns back, "I stopped down to check on things, and to spell Starsong, if she needed it." A long moment passes while Niherlas regards Starsong next to Thorvald, "She is one of our treasures, Thorvald son of Dreng. Highly regarded among our healers. Do treat her with respect." There's no reproach in Niherlas' tone, no implication that Starsong has not been treated respectfully. It is simply the spoken truth.

Cyrene leans her head against the wall behind her and drifts off after a time.

Leif looks a bit disappointed at the announcement that there will be no looting. He was rather looking forward to the whole 'raping and pillaging' aspect of his first battle.

Altair watches as the Estrel orders Jana away, his expression darkening as he is left incommunicado. He goes to move, to seek out someone that will give him information, but the strain on his body is too much. Too much, too soon. "Gods, remind me to send you a sternly-thought prayer when I have the strength to do so..." He lays back down, looking up at all the people standing over everyone else. "Where's Andi when I need her...?"

Axel turns on his cot, looking from the Varati to his thrall. He shakes his head with a grin. 'Do as the Hoevding says,' he indicates without a word. He watches the Aelfling working, amazed at the healer. She has earned his respect too, for she might not be mighty on the field of battle, but she is brave in her healing.

Sven's mouth settles into a sullen line at Niamh's tone, but he won't disobey orders from the Hoevding. Scowling, he digs the soap out of his pocket and abruptly thrusts it toward the Varati Estrel. His gaze is insolence itself.

Thorvald eyes Niherlas blandly, wondering why the Estrel felt the need to say that. The red-winged Aesir shrugs then, and turns to arrange a comfortable blanket pillow for Cyrene as she drifts off to sleep.

Niamh is in half a mood to singe a few feathers, but... a truce is a truce... and these aren't Haven Empyreans. The soap is taken and set in its place rather firmly as he continues to glare at the young thief. Then, turning back to Niherlas he asks, "Is there anything I can help with?" He can at least adjust the temperature of the room a bit if it is too cold.

Too cold? Not for the Aesir....

As soon as Niamh's back is turned, Sven sticks his tongue out at him and waggles his hands behind his ears. He's not too old for such childish displays yet. But he doesn't want to earn a frown of disapproval from Axel or Thorvald, so he stops soon enough, plopping down onto a cot again and expelling a sigh. He pokes morosely at the gash on his arm.

Axel goes to work removing his boots. Better keep those away from the severely wounded. Worse than those poison plants most likely. He swings his bare feet below the cot, quite comfortable bare-chested and waiting his turn for tending-to. That when Sven starts poking at his wound he sighs and smacks the youth's hand again. He's been told about that. Even if it itches, let it be.

Fur and leather rustle whisperingly across the floor as Starsong, still on her knees, pushes her way over to the next patient. A few murmured words are given to this one -- it's doubtful whether the stranger can understand, even though he is conscious, but Starsong speaks them anyway, as she reaches out a less steady hand to touch this one's shoulder.

Has she heard Niherlas's words about her? It doesn't seem so -- or at least, she has given no sign that she has heard it. The Sylvan girl seems to be lost in her own little world, seeing nothing beyond the patient in front of her, and whatever she sees when she lets her eyes lose their focus and looks within.

"Not that I know of," Niherlas replies to Niamh, "Although we may want to start moving our own wounded back into the Infirmary -- seeing as the reasons we moved everyone here are no longer valid. Once I was done here, I was going to go to the Palladium... and see what damage needs to be repaired there."

Leif just wants that pain out of his back so he can actually sit. "Hey... Sven... c'n ye look t'see if I've been hit in m'back?" Between the wings or maybe just below? If so, he hopes the healers leave those scars, too.

Thorvald walks over to Leif and examines the lad's back. "It can't be too bad if you can move your feet," he says, looking to see how deep the gash is.

Niamh nods. "I was going to take a few of my students and try to clean up a bit of the Rialto." It would have to be done carefully so nothing catches fire that shouldn't. But even if it were cleaned up and dumped somewhere... it could get awfully smelly. Better to bear with the stench once while it's all burned.

"Oww!" Sven complains as Axel slaps at his hand again. His voice is gravitating toward petulant and whiny -- it has been a very long, tiring day, full of battle and strange new sights. The boy's exhausted, even if he's struggling not to show it. But Leif's request draws him out of his funk enough to crawl across his cot closer to the older youth's. "Lemme see," he says, leaning over, just as Thorvald is, to peer between Leif's wings and search for new injuries.

Niherlas nods to Niamh, "Be thankful it's cold -- the smell won't travel." He glances at Starsong as she moves. "Estrel," he says to Niamh, "pardon me while I see to Adept Starsong."

Niamh nods once before glancing at the new... 'guests'. "Don't overwork yourself," he offers before moving out into the Rialto for the grisly clean-up duty.

Altair looks back to Sven and Axel, arching a brow slowly at their odd antics. He shakes his head softly, looking them over appraisingly. "Gods, some of these lads couldn't be much older than when I lost my father..." He watches, studying, trying to learn more by observation.

Niamh pushes open the massive stone doors that lead into the practice room. Soundlessly the doors swing shut again.

Leif gives a kick of his feet, trying not to wince as he moves the wounded leg, "Naah... I c'n move 'em..." It doesn't seem to be too bad... only when he sits back, really. Brownish wings are lowered so that Thorvald and Sven can get a better look at whatever is there.

Axel stands from his cot and weaves through the people, headed over toward Altair. He plops down cross-legged, graceful for his bulk and size. It looks they might be here a little while, so he might as well see what he can learn. He points to himself and says slowly, "Axel." It seemed to work with Starsong and Leif. He then extends his hand, leaving it hanging in the air for a hand shake with the injured commander.

Thorvald observes Leif's back for a few moments, wordlessly. Then he reaches down, and grabs the hilt of one of the two daggers stuck in the links of his armor. After working the point out with as little damage to the armor as possible, he does the same for the second dagger. There's a frown on his face as he considers what might have happened, had the knives been placed slightly differently. Flipping both blades around in his hands, he presents them to Leif, hilts-first. His trophies.

Niherlas makes his way over to the Sylvan girl, "Starsong. Lass." In seeming contradiction to what he told Thorvald and, through Thorvald, Axel, Niherlas places a hand on Starsong's shoulder, "How are you?"

Heeey... Leif was wondering what happened to those knives that were thrown at him! With a bit of a smirk, Leif takes the knives and inspects them. Not bad at all... strong enough to stick in armor, it seems. A scar and two knives! Not a bad plunder at all.

Sven blinks a few times, watching wide-eyed while Thorvald pulls the knives from Leif's armor. Leif certainly got more battered than he did in the fight. And he'll have more scars. Really gruesome ones. They'll probably drive the girls wild.

As for Sven, he only has that single, solitary wound on his arm. Little more than a scratch, really. And now that a truce of sorts has been reached, the prospect of another battle is slim. The boy sighs disconsolately and hunches up his knees on the cot. He licks his fingers and then starts scrubbing away at the blood on his arm.

"Hmmmmm?" With a long, slow, quizzical sound, Starsong pulls herself back from the depths of her inner concentration -- and inner weariness -- to focus, bit by bit, on the new voice and touch making its way into her mind. Slowly, her head turns to direct wide, blinking green eyes up at the other healer. "Oh," she says, finally. "Fine... I'm all right..." Her voice is thin, though, barely strong enough to carry beyond the cot next to which she kneels.

Niherlas blinks less than a heartbeat after he touches Starsong, "Apollo's mercies, girl. What are you always lecturing me on? I merely stay up nights hunched over a desk. You're nothing but a shell!" It's apparent that Niherlas is holding back, his tone gentled from the harsh lecture he'd much rather be giving her. "You're done, Starsong. I want you to rest, before you put yourself into a coma."

Altair looks to Axel, blinking softly at him as he approaches. As he sits and announces his name, he recognizes the gesture, nodding softly. Grimacing from complaining muscles, he manages to sit up a little on his left side, taking his hand and shaking it as firmly as muscles will allow. "Altair," he says softly, motioning to himself.

About that time, a Soldat comes in with a wolf helmet and a claymore worthy of some of these barbarians. He kneels before Altair and gives him the articles, Altair accepting with a nod and a pat of both with a hand. "These were found on the battlefield near your position, Commander. I thought you might want them returned to you."

"Thank you, Soldat," comes Altair's reply with a soft smile.

The Soldat salutes and returns to duty.

Squeezing her eyes tightly shut against the dizziness that comes, Starsong shakes her head furiously, protesting, "No -- too much to do... too many other people. I'll be all right, Niherlas, truly..." Her voice trails off, though, with no energy to sustain the words.

Thorvald eyes Starsong and Niherlas for a few moments. "We have a story," he says, "of Gunnar Eriksen. A healer.

Axel returns the shake -- it's firm, but he doesn't try any attempts at strength contests. Now is a time for resting. He pats the man on the shoulder and settles back, watching the Soldat and the items he hands to the commander. Several thoughts go through his mind. He points to the sword and the helmet, curious. Then an idea strikes. He points to the sword again and speaks a single word in his own tongue and waits. Seemingly asking the name of the item in the foreign tongue of the city.

Sven hides a yawn behind his hand, but his eyelids are drooping. Maybe no one will notice if he just lies down on this cot here. He's not really going to go to sleep. He'll just watch and listen. And maybe, oh... close his eyes. For a little while.

The youth tucks his wings in close against him and curls up on the cot, and within moments, he's asleep, drifting into dreams of battle and bloodshed where he's the much-touted hero of the day....

Niherlas turns and calls to the leaving Soldat, "Hound! Wait. Speak to your Commander, and have a guard put on this room." He glances about at the injured, "I don't want anyone with an eye on revenge coming in here."

As the Soldat nods, and leaves, Niherlas gives his attention back to Starsong. "No. If you drain yourself now for one more, lass, then you'll not be able to help any others." He settles both hands upon Starsong's shoulders, his hands placed not unlike when he forgave Axel. Then Thorvald speaks, and Niherlas looks to the Aesir with a distracted look in his eyes. "Yes?"

Thorvald returns Niherlas' look. "He wanted to be a warrior, but was barely strong enough to lift an axe. Fate made him a healer, instead. He healed so many men after a great battle one day, that he died from the strain. Legend says that the Valkyrs came and accepted him into Valholl as a warrior, because he died from battle-wounds."

Thorvald shrugs, not one for tales, really, but it's a pretty story. He motions to Starsong. "Perhaps she wishes to feast with the gods."

Altair blinks again a moment, looking to the sword. He pulls it a little closer, gazing upon the hilt and the blade slowly, as if inspecting it for damage. "Sword," he says slowly, looking to Axel with a curious expression, repeating the word he had spoken in regards to the weapon. It doesn't come out quite right, but it is an attempt.

One more protest, even fainter than before, rises up from the Sylvan girl, even as she droops back against the cot, with no strength to hold herself up except that which she draws from Niherlas's supporting hands. Starsong listens to the story with wide eyes, dull from exhaustion now instead of transcendent focus, and she speaks no more, simply sitting where she is, giving one more slow shake of her head, back and forth.

"She's earned it," Niherlas quietly says, "But not tonight. I'm selfish, Thorvald son of Dreng, and my time here would be darker if she left for that feast."

Closing his eyes for a little bit doesn't seem like a bad idea. Like Sven, Leif is awake... really. He'd like to learn some of the words, as Axel is, but he soon falls asleep as well, on his stomach, his wings relaxed in a spread-out repose. Too bad the cot is just a bit too narrow. He always enjoyed stories, but they always tended to put him to sleep and this one, short as it is... and exhausted as he is, is not an exception.

Soon, Leif is snoring, oblivious to whatever goes on about him. The new knives are held carefully in his hands lest someone try and take them while he 'rests.'

Axel tests the word, wrapping his tongue around the sweeter tongue of this city-talk. "Sa-word," he repeats. Another look of curiosity. Did he get it right? He glances over at his shoulder to catch the collapsing Aelfling and nods approval before returning to Altair. This time, he points to the helmet, repeating the same process as before.

Thorvald nods to Niherlas. "Then she must rest," he says. He doesn't know much about magic, but he knows shock and exhaustion when he sees it. "Do you think that many would come and try to slay us? Is not the Tower a sacred place?"

Carefully, Niherlas removes his hands from Starsong's shoulders, then half-lifts, half-guides the girl to a remaining cot, where he gently pushes her down to rest, and lays a blanket over her, "You'll watch over her, won't you, Thorvald, son of Dreng?" You might think Niherlas was entrusting great riches to Thorvald. He is.

Altair looks to the helmet, placing his hand upon it and repeating the word Axel spoke. "Helmet," follows, and after a few moments, he motions to both objects. "Sword and Helmet," he says softly, a little smile on his face, hoping that Axel is understanding. He then slowly traces the design of the helmet, indicating the animal upon it. "Wolf," he says softly.

Axel nods eagerly. He's not as fast as some, but these things he can understand. "Sword and hell-met." He mimics. This isn't that hard. Of course, grammar is going to be another matter. Then at the design, he throws back his head in a howl before commenting "Fenrir." The wolf is an important animal to his people. "Wolf."

Stumbling, shuffling, Starsong is more pushed towards the bed than moving of her own volition. The moment that Niherlas's supporting hands leave her, she crumples onto the cot, eyes already closing as the last bits of strength leave her. Loosely curled onto her side, the girl makes one more faint noise, more murmur than word, and then she is gone, the lines of tension slipping away from her face to leave only weariness, and soon even that disappears as she drifts off into sleep.

Thorvald nods to Niherlas. "I will," he says, still waiting for the answer to his own question.

Niherlas smooths the blanket over Starsong, "No, I doubt anyone will steal in to murder you. But saying that I wish guards because I fear that is much more flattering than saying I'd like guards on this room because you were invaders this morning, isn't it?"

Altair chuckles softly at the howl, nodding quickly. "You've got it," he says before placing a finger upon his lips and looking about. His voice is hushed as he speaks, almost whispering. "Quiet."

Thorvald shakes his head to Niherlas. "No," he says. "Saying we need guards is not flattering. Saying that you wish guards from us, is." He shrugs, expansively. "But I have given my word, and I am Hoevding of the Aesir. The Council must meet, but I do not think they will go against me. The Najada..."

Thorvald trails off, looking at Izak. "I will explain when he awakens. I do not think they wish to die just yet." Though he could be wrong.

Axel blinks a little more at the more abstract word of 'Quiet.' But the gesture and quieter tone manage to convey enough meeting. He smiles on the sheepish side and speaks in a much quieter voice. He's stumped for new words at the moment. And perhaps the commander wishes to rest, so he makes a pillow of his hands and mimes going to sleep before gesturing to Altair.

"We have much to learn, each of us," Niherlas says, his voice much wearier than it was when he first entered. "But first... we must see that this truce turns into peace." He gives a sigh as he regards the Aesir, "I must go, and speak to the Emperor that you dangled from a rooftop. Rest now, Thorvald, son of Dreng. We've much ahead of us."

Thorvald nods to Niherlas. "He was about to spear my grandson's mother," he says, with bit of the fire in his eyes again. "Were he not a ruler, I would have killed him. Then, we all would have died." Thorvald doesn't seem to regard that as a terrible thing. "But then our people would never know about the Tower. We are not an unfalteringly violent people."

Altair blinks, looking to the blanket beneath him and the makeshift pillow, before shrugging. "Sleep," he says softly before grinning a little and gesturing outside. "I think I got enough out there, flashing in and out of consciousness..." He looks to Niherlas at the mention of the Emperor... dangling from a rooftop?? Egads! He almost smirks -- almost -- before clearing his throat and regaining his composure.

Looking toward the floor, Altair picks up the bloodied spearpoint that was once embedded in his chest. "Spear," he says softly, holding it out to Axel.

Niherlas inclines his head, "Good night, then." From there, he takes his leave, entrusting Starsong to the Aesir.

Axel grins again. Happy to have found another warrior not so easily called away to the sleeping lands. He takes the spear point and examines it, repeating the word and offering the same in his tongue. Another touch of his hand to the wounds on his arms and a gesture to the healing wound on Altair's chest.

Niherlas pushes open the massive stone doors that lead into the practice room. Soundlessly, the doors swing shut again.

Thorvald sits down, near Cyrene, in a position where he can view the room. He looks at Axel and Altair approvingly, but says nothing.

Altair looks to the scar on his chest, blinking a moment as he brushes his hand over it. "Wound," he says, followed by another word, "Injury." He takes a deep breath, cringing just a little in pain before relaxing with the sigh. He looks towards Thorvald, wondering if the warrior will also be looking for a conversation partner?

"Wound." Axel gestures to each in turn. "Injury." The words sound odd to him, and it is slow going. Following the man's gaze, he looks back to Thorvald and says. "Hoevding." He gestures to the Chieftan. Then he ponders how to get the point across of what Thorvald is. Hopefully, the Altair is quick on the uptake.

Beside Thorvald, one of the Rusalki stirs -- the younger one, Cyrene. Although how one can tell the near identical females apart is beyond most. Shoulders hunch and wings rise, flexing, as Cyrene lifts her head from her makeshift pillow, turning it towards the sound of voices.

Altair blinks a moment, looking up to Thorvald, before scratching his head. "Hoevding," he says as he repeats the word. "Now, the Estrel kept calling him Thorvald, son of... someone... Dreng, I think he said. Thorvald, son of Dreng..." He scratches his head again. "Rank...?" he asks softly, though knowing Axel couldn't answer if he wanted to. "Captain or chieftain or something, I bet..."

He looks to Axel again, offering a smile. Altair motions to himself. "Commander," he says softly, hoping that Axel will understand this one. It certainly is a toughie...

Thorvald listens to the two speak, deciding that Axel will be trying to pick up women in the streets in a day or so. He nods to the waking Cyrene.

Another eager nod after a few moment's thought. Axel gestures to himself and first says, "Commander," then "Jarl." He then points to Altair. "Jarl." Then back over to Thor. "Thorvald, Son of Dreng, Hoevding."

Axel seems to be picking it up, and hopefully he can use it to do the same to pick up Jana. He keeps his voice low, of course, despite his enthusiasm.

Cyrene splays her hands against the ground and pushes herself into a sitting position, blinking bleary seal-eyes, which are turned next upon Thorvald. "What is happening?" she asks in her rusty Aesir.

Altair hrms, arching a brow a moment. "You're a Commander...?" He scratches his head a moment, then shrugs. "Altair, son of Leander, Commander." He repeats the words of the other, replacing where appropriate, smiling softly as the exchange seems to be going so well. He looks over to Thorvald, before releasing a quiet sigh. "Now if only I knew what happened..."

Thorvald regards Cyrene for a few moments. "They are speaking to one another, and learning," he says. "It is good. Did you sleep?"

Axel would be glad to tell the tale. He loves to tell stories. Especially when they involve his own exploits. But alas, he cannot speak it well enough. "Axel, son of Arne, Jarl." It's probably not quite the same position, but close enough. Axel is one of Thorvald's leaders.

Cyrene rubs briefly at one cheek and yawns, nodding as she does so, an Aesir expression she uses more easily than the Najada or her sister -- due to Thor's son. "I did. My dreams were disturbed by today's bloodshed, however." She levels an uncanny gaze at the pair and back at Thor. "I, too, would like to learn this odd language they speak. Can you teach me?"

Altair hrms, arching a brow slowly as he thinks on this one coming up. "Jarl," he says as he motions to Axel, then "Hoevding," as he motions to Thorvald. "Axel, Thorvald," he says as he follows the motions. He then motions to himself. "Commander," before motioning at the wall, trying to indicate something or someone beyond. "Archon. Altair, Dohosan Eagle-Eye. Altair, Commander. Dohosan, Archon." Now, let's see if that bit of programming input will feed through Axel's computer banks...

Thorvald nods to Cyrene. "I can try. Though the Najada woman, Katya -- she is better than I am in speaking this language. I think we might all want to learn some of it, while we are here."

That takes a little longer for Axel to ponder. He's not met Dohosan yet. So he's somewhat confused. He looks over his shoulder at Thorvald who is speaking with Cyrene. "Archon?" He offers vaguely.

Cyrene glances at Axel, blinking twice, thrice, then at Thorvald. "Well, you are more fit than she at the moment to teach me. Um, what is an Archon?"

Altair smiles softly, nodding and motioning towards Thorvald. "Archon." Though the ranks aren't exact, they are similar enough. Thorvald is Axel's boss, just as Dohosan is Altair's. Altair sighs softly as he thinks of something, or rather someone, his expression growing a little forlorn.

Thorvald shrugs to Cyrene, uncertain. "I do not know that word," he says.

Cyrene cants her head at the pair again. "Perhaps we can start with something simpler then?" she asks of Thorvald.

Ahh, the confused look changes as it hits him. Axel snaps a finger and it comes to him. "Archon." Then he points to Thorvald. "Archon." Though who was the fellow dangling from the rooftop then? His importance seemed more in line with Thorvald's.

Thorvald nods to Cyrene, waiting for her to begin.

Cyrene seems at a bit of a loss, having hoped Thorvald would suggest something. But she shrugs, rising to her feet and stretching limbs and wings. The membranous extremities flare outward and fold again as she looks about the room. Spying an unfamiliar object at her feet, she plucks it up and hands it to Thorvald expectantly.

Thorvald picks up the blanket, and unfolds it for Cyrene. 'Blanket,' he says. "For keeping warm when it is cold. You wrap it around yourself, or sleep under it."

Altair looks to Axel, nodding softly before looking down to his sword. "Gods, this is going to drive the Empyre crazy. All their ideas of racial purity are about to be tossed right out the window, I hope..." He looks up to Axel, arching a brow slowly. "What do you call yourselves, I wonder? I doubt the term 'Empyrean' applies..." He motions to himself, to his wings and then his form. "Empyrean," he says, hoping Axel will pick up on the idea.

Cyrene cants her head, reaching out to touch it again. "Buhlen-ket." She echoes him. "Blenket. Blenket?" She repeats it until her accentuation is closer.

Cyrene adds a volley of Aesir. "I think I saw one on your ship, Thorvald... the Aesir have thinner skins than do the Rusalki and the Najada, yes?"

Thorvald snorts a little. "Maybe," he says. "We certainly feel the cold more than you do, though these Southlanders seem to feel it much more." He hands her the blanket.

Axel points to Thorvald and himself and then to Altair, indicating all three. He wiggles his wing tips and says 'Empyrean,' mimicking the other. 'Aesir,' he then adds, indicating all three again. "I like this fellow. He may not have a beard, but he's not so scrawny as most of the others." Then, toward Cyrene. "Rusalki."

Cyrene accepts the blanket, setting it at her feet, and taking another step to snatch up a glass of water someone left behind. The liquid is fingered, but her turn towards Thor for a word is halted as she hears the Aesir word for her people. She turns her seal-gaze upon Altair and Axel intently, wondering.

Altair smiles softly, nodding quietly. "Aesir," he says softly, before getting lost in the language block again. He blinks slowly, before shaking his head again. "Now, you've lost me." He looks up to Thorvald, offering him an apologetic smile.

Axel tries again. "Rusalki." Another gesture at Cyrene. He'll probably take it to mean half-breed. Which is close enough.

Thorvald nods to Altair. "Axel says that he likes you, even if you don't have a beard. And that you're closer to normal size, which is good."

Cyrene has yet to turn her attention away, still curious as to what those boys with wings are saying about her.

Altair blinks at Cyrene, thinking that might be her name. "Rusalki...?" he asks, confused. It's then that Thorvald speaks, looking to him with a smile. "Thank you, Thorvald, son of Dreng." Best to keep as the Estrel did. "My full name is Altair Leander Chryseis, son of Leander Talos Thanatos and Commander of the Haven Hounds, the Haven military police force." He reaches out his hand, offering it for a shake despite the distance.

Thorvald walks over to the wounded man, and clasps his hand. "You have a long name," he says. "Well met. A pity we did not meet in battle today."

There's another interesting word. 'Battle?' Axel mimics. Looking up to Thorvald, he asks. "Does that word mean battle? To fight? Make war?" He's curious. Oh wait, Cyrene. He gestures to her again. "Cyrene, Rusalki. Axel, Aesir."

Thorvald nods to Axel. 'Battle,' he says, then repeats in Aesir. "Battle."

Determined not to be ignored, Cyrene takes a step forward, placing a hand on her chest, which happens to be as bare as the rest of her, save for her hair. "Cyrene," she clarifies. Rusalki is an Aesir word, and not correct at all.

Altair shakes the hand firmly, shrugging softly as he smiles to Thorvald. "I think running into one of your spears rendered the problem academic for me... Come back in a couple of days, and I would be more than welcome to spar with you. On friendly terms." He looks to Cyrene, bowing his head to her. "Cyrene is your name, then. And Rusalki the name of your form?"

Cyrene blinks uncertainly in the face of so many foreign words. All she knows is 'blenket.' So she reiterates, "Cyrene." A hesitation. "Rusalki." Wings flare behind her, a drift of dull fragility.

Axel goes quiet, listening and stifling a yawn as his head swivels from one to the other. He should probably be sleeping. He's had no magic healing and his wounds have only been tended to in a cursory fashion.

Thorvald looks to Axel, frowning. "You're still hurt," he says. "I'm no healer, but I brought a salve from the ship. I can dress and bind your wounds, at least, so they won't fester."

Thorvald pulls out a small bottle of some thick liquid and holds it for Axel to see.

Axel grunts at Thorvald and nods his head. "Thanks, you old horse." He holds his arm up -- at least he washed it. "I think the lower one will scar, the other is little more than a nick." Then with some consideration. "I wonder if that lad lived through the battle?" Referring to Caleb, of course.

Altair blinks, looking between the talking people and getting lost again. He shakes his head softly, smiling as he listens to what he cannot understand. Maybe he'll pick up a few things.

Cyrene finds herself lost as well, and useless once more. Setting down the glass, she turns away, wings folding tightly, and moves towards the door that leads out of their infirmary/prison, wondering if she might pass beyond it...

Thorvald holds the bottle for Altair to look at. Not knowing the word for salve, he contents himself with saying, "Healing liquid." Then, he goes to Axel, and begins to apply it to his wounds. Some clean, torn cloth will serve for a bandage.

Axel gets himself bandaged up, and notices Cyrene walking away. He pads over to her, holding his arm against his chest. His hand goes to her shoulder and he shakes his head. He didn't hear the words, but it doesn't take genius to figure out they likely have guards. It's what he would do. "That probably is not wise."

Altair ahhhhs, chuckling softly. "Salve. That stuff comes in quite handy when there are no healers nearby." He looks to Axel, smiling softly before giving a little yawn himself. "Thorvald, may I ask you a question? Regarding the events of the day?"

Cyrene pauses, glancing at the hand upon her shoulder and then at Axel. "Why not? Do they mean to keep us here forever?" She looks at Thorvald and then at the ground, her words tight as the muscles bunching beneath her thick skin. "I want to go back to the sea. My Jhoi needs me."

Thorvald nods to Axel and Cyrene. "We have guards," he says. 'Yes, Altair,' he says to the Hound. 'Ask.'

Axel smile softly at Cyrene and shakes his head. "Not forever, no. But we raided. Rather successfully, all things considered. Were I them, I would not let us wander freely. Especially not in this place of great magic. They need to learn that our word is our bond. A few days, perhaps." He's optimistic that they will not be shutting them up for to long. There are women to be laid out there, you know. A whole city full of them.

Altair looks to Thorvald, nodding softly. "My apologies for being blunt, but I've been rather left in the dark on the situation... Why the attack? And what exactly is going on now?"

Cyrene appreciates his smile, but shakes her head once more. "I have never been away from Zel for so long. I only hope the idiots here do not hunt whales regularly."

Thorvald gives Altair the same odd look he gave Niherlas when he was asked why. "We raid," he says. "It is our life. We raid for food, cattle, jewels, and more. We heard the land was rich to the south, so we came." He shrugs. "We stay to see if our legends of the Delphi, the White Tower are true."

Axel reaches up his good hand to run through Cyrene's hair. "I do not think they have the skill to do so. Tomorrow, we shall ask our friends about seeing them. I am sure Zel and Jhoi will be fine. Likely the hunting for them is as abundant in the waters as the raiding is."

Altair arches a brow slowly before he shakes his head. "That is not our way. We do not raid. Here, we try to live by helping each other. At least, that's what was meant to be one of the goals of this place... Haven and Delphi are neutral territory, where fighting isn't meant to occur. A place where the four races can meet in peace, learn in peace. Neutral territory."

Cyrene angles a fathomless glance at Axel, and alien though it is, it possesses some measure of warmth, unusual in the eyes of a Rusalki. But circumstances have dictated Cyrene will be ever set apart. "Zel and Jhoi are the same thing. Jhoi is a Rusalki concept meaning 'pair-bonded.' Zelimir is my Jhoi. But if I might be granted leave to see him, I would be content."

Thorvald looks to Altair. "Ah," he says. "Our land is too harsh for such togetherness." He shrugs. "Four races? I have seen more than that today."

Axel ahhs. He doesn't know all the details of the Rusalki. His own features are warm, even though he has not washed the battle-grime from his face. "Perhaps our friend," he inclines his head to the commander, 'Altair,' "Perhaps he can insure that?"

Cyrene glances over her shoulder at the conversing pair and back at Axel, a hopeful gleam in her eyes. "Do you think? Is he someone important? Would you ask him for me? Or have Thorvald?"

Axel, still brushing his fingers into Cyrene's hair, nods. "He, too, is a Jarl. Or close enough, by their reckoning. I will have Thor ask him, as I know little of their strange city-talk." How could he help but try to please the beauty? He turns to Thor and relays the gist of the conversation.

Then again, no one knows all the details of the Rusalki. It's what makes them feared and even hated by so many.

Altair chuckles softly. "You don't know how harsh this place can get. Though it isn't of environment more than it is of politics... Here, some people just don't want to get along. The Varati and the Empyreans are prime examples of two stubborn governments that have been butting heads for thousands of years...

"As for more than the four races, there is a large mongrel population here. Some believe they are the result of interbreeding over the eons, while others believe they are a fifth race, or should be seen as such. There are also halfbreeds here, often delightful people whom just happened to result from a mixed marriage."

Thorvald ohs, listening to Altair. He tries to translate on the fly, and comes up with: "Haven is insane." Thorvald decides he can accept this, and moves on.

Axel simply nods sagely. That fits with what he has seen so far. They don't raid, their women don't like to be touched. It's a miracle the whole place doesn't drop into the ocean.

Cyrene listens, but is lost again. Or still. All she wants is to go back to the sea. She's hungry, as evidenced by her rumbling stomach, and she misses Zel. They can have their raids and their booty. Call her a whiner, but that's how it stands. Ebon eyes swing away, back towards the door.

Thorvald nods, listening to Axel. "Axel and Cyrene wish to know how long we will be held here," he says. "The Tower-master, Niherlas, promised us peace, and that we would not be prisoners. My grandson's mother, Cyrene," and here he nods to the woman, "greatly wishes to return to the sea as soon as possible, to be with her bonded whale. She was wondering, if you could perhaps speak on her behalf."

Altair looks to Cyrene, arching a brow slowly to her. He's heard rumors of flying fish before... Maybe she's meant to resemble one? He looks to Thorvald, nodding softly. "I can certainly talk to them and see if I can get more information for you... Though next time you make a southward trip, try bringing things for trade rather than raiding. People here are much more receptive to that, and if you have anything unique the merchants in the Rialto will clamor to your doorstep."

Thorvald goes back to his previous seat, and sits down. He's quite tired, and will doze a bit, though if he ever truly sleeps is anyone's guess. At least he doesn't snore. "Yes," he says. "I had determined that. We have some things that I have not seen here in Haven, but time will tell."

FIN  

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