11-21-2017, 10:17 AM
like the sun swallowed up by the earth
For a moment, he wishes desperately that the faeries had gifted him with something besides his fumbling wings at his side. In the moment he realizes how useful so many other traits and abilities could be - healing, for one. He snorts softly, contemplating this despite many other thoughts whirling through his mind. He had been trying to not raise the alarm with the two unfamiliar mares, but when the pale golden woman gently asks ‘Is she though?’ he knows that she is thinking the same as him: who has done this? He meets the stranger’s eyes with the same helplessness he had before, his stomach churning with dread. He says nothing, but inwardly he tells himself decisively: I will make sure of it.Peace never lasts, and the bloodied and beaten winged woman is a sure indicator of that.
His feathers ruffle unsettlingly at his sides, thankful for Femur (though he has yet to learn her name) because between the two of them, they should be able to help Scyla. He looks to Femur with an agreeing nod, and glances around the beach to see if there is anyone else in the area, someone with a bit more than they could offer her, one ear trained on Scyla as she murmurs to them in response, his heart aching as the pain she feels become vocalized.
She stumbles forward into the gentle and frothing waves, (he had begun to try and stop her, ‘Are you sure -?’, but his voice falls on deaf ears) and Warrick is there to be sure she does not collapse into the surf, walking with her. She allows the sting of the salt to penetrate her wounds, and the stallion watches her empathetically with a silent, blue gaze. Her pale wings stretch out to help her keep her balance, a stark white against the deep indigo of his own, and for some reason unknown to him, he gently begins to groom the ivory feathers, setting them in place with soft tugs of his teeth - as if this could somehow help her.
“Are you angels or demons?”
Her question makes him stop preening the dirtied and bloodied feathers, glancing over the pale and scarred withers of this stranger to his other companion, concerned.
“Neither,” he admits, before continuing, “I am Warrick.”
“You are in Tephra,” he mentions quietly, just in case she didn’t know. A pause, a flicker of his gaze towards the golden woman before back to the ivory mare. “Your wounds have stopped bleeding. You’ve cared for the outer parts of yourself. Come, let’s find a place for you to rest and begin to heal the inner part.”
There are many secluded spots on the Tephran island, he’s sure there is a close one nearby that would be a quiet shelter for her to rest.
Warrick
@[Femur] @[Scyla]