65th of Frost, 4621
There wasn’t much to say on the matter of Raphael’s initiation. Arkash would repair the man’s wounds as they appeared, keep him from expiring, and then receive the mark of Nightfall himself. It was, without a doubt, very important to Raphael that he received Blood Magic, but the young Rath couldn’t seem to care less.
Raphael had kept him around for months, maneuvering the Candor and prying at Arkash’s seams, even going as far as to research his tracks through Lorien to decipher his true identity, all so that he could be initiated in the mark that was forced upon him in the bitter cold of Lorien’s Ash just a year ago. But for Arkash, it was just a means to an end; a memory best discarded once their transaction was complete.
It didn’t feel like a good idea to bestow the power of a forbidden mark on a man like Raphael, and his gut told him it was a bad idea, but with how little time he had before the Riftwick was unlocked, he needed Raphael’s help in un-merging Dorn and the others. The Necrodoctor would only help Arkash after they’d traded magic, he’d promised. So, to expedite the process, Arkash decided to initiate the man that day.
If all went according to plan, Arkash would receive the mark of nightfall, and they would both journey to Northern Tyrclaid together to repair the Amalgamation. Raphael would be able to research the Necromancer’s technique on his people, and Arkash’s village would be restored. From there on, they only stood to gain from cooperating with one another.
Arkash understood that, he understood well that their relationship benefited them mutually, but even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making a mistake by trusting the noble.
Despite the unease and the feeling of mistrust, Raphael wasn’t too big a deal, Arkash thought. In comparison to Brilan Ald, the mage was an insect. He wasn’t as much a problem as Arkash posed all the nobility of the world to be. The true reason Arkash had set out on his mission to rid the world of tyrants and oppressors wasn’t to stomp on every noble on the way; he was to aim high, to sever the head of the beast that was society, and free all those subservient that perpetuated it.
Raphael wasn’t that head, he was but a facet, a product of his world. Arkash didn’t particularly like the man; he thought Raphael too clever for his own good, but what did that matter? He wasn’t a maniac that prowled the streets looking for peasants to beat and rob. There was something to be said about his treatment of slaves, and the recycling of parts, but Arkash didn’t care for weakness. If he could escape slavery fifty times over, why couldn’t all those born so much more fortunate than him? There was no cure for cowardice.
What could Raphael do with Blood Magic? Further his own power? It wasn’t as though Raphael could openly practice the mark in public either, he was a noble with far too much to lose. He couldn’t be sloppy with it, so what did Arkash have to worry about?
Before his thoughts could spiral further, his hearing collected the sound of a presence, descending the stairs beyond the door of the underground laboratory. Arkash perked up, and focus squarely on the arched wooden door before the handle twisted, and yielded to the presence on the other side.
In came Raphael, dressed in clothes the young Rath hadn’t seen before. It was a simple gown, something he’d expect to see more at home on a surgeon than a noble. Arkash rose a brow, he supposed it made sense to wear something that was bound to get bloody during the initiation. Sheepishly, the other man let himself in and gently closed the door behind him. Arkash couldn’t deny that he found some amusement in the sight of the proud Veir so meek, but said and showed none of it.
“Alright,” Raphael began as he brushed himself off and approached the Rathor “…I’m ready, what now?”
Arkash nodded and straightened his back as he looked the human up and down. “…Now, you want to open your safe, so I can use your tools,” he offered with a gesture to the low-standing cupboard across the room.
Raphael rose both brows, nodded quickly, then stepped across the room to open the doors. He barely met the Rathor’s eyes as he walked, it was a behavior much unlike the noble Arkash had come to know, almost unrecognizable. Despite his cold ambivalence toward the human, he did wonder what the nature of the shift in disposition was. The situation? Being initiated by a peasant? Was it maybe his clothes? His analysis was fruitless, but he was interested nonetheless.
When Raphael returned with the tools and set them on the nearby operating table, Arkash nodded his approval and clasped his claws together. “Alright… Where do you want it?”
“The mark?” Raphael asked. “Uh, right. I’ve thought about it a lot, actually… Are you comfortable with-.” He paused, eyes fixed on the Rathor.
“…What?” Arkash returned once the silence had stretched uncomfortably long.
Raphael exhaled deeply, trailing his thoughts with his breath. “…Cutting me,” Raphael answered at last. “I wanted the mark to be under my under my skin, so you’d have to cut me open…” he explained his hesitance, quite literally putting himself beneath the knife of a man who’d sworn to dismantle the system he thrived on.
Arkash smiled. “…Second thoughts?”
Raphael curled his nose a little, as though he’d read the offer as a challenge. “No, I’m still quite certain,” he affirmed. “You don’t want to kill me, you need me for your project in Tyrclaid,” he told. Arkash rose a brow. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said that Raphael was trying to assure himself. But if he wasn’t afraid, then there was no issue with him drawing his sword, right? With some force to his Arm, Arkash unsheathed the jagged black blade and twirled it in his claws. Effortlessly, the blade cut through and wove with the air. “Ulen’s mercy… Not with that!” He called, eyes wide before his brows furrowed in a flash of anger.
The rath took hold of his recent chest wound with an arm as he laughed, throwing his head back with glee.
Raphael frowned. “I’m serious,” he declared. “Use a smaller blade.”
With a sigh, Arkash let a little more than three-quarters of the sword fall to the ground with a sharp clatter, and shaped the remaining blade from the handle with Sway and Bloodshaping. “…This better?” he asked as he wiped tears from his eyes. “The look on your face… priceless,” he added.
“Shut up,” returned the noble. “I know this is a surgeon’s gown, but I’d rather not make too much of a mess of it. Could you…?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” Arkash assured, and set the knife down as he cast a glance to the tools. With a nod, he stepped across the room and fetched a gallon jar of Sinew Foam before he set it on the table.
“…What are you doing?” Raphael returned with a furrow to his brow.
Arkash returned that confused squint, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t have any bodies here to mash up, so…” He spoke in reference to the mortar and pestle.
“Oh,” Raphael returned. “Oh, don’t even bother with the Sinew Gun. You can use the grafting needle for this,” he spoke with a gesture.
“…Needle?” Arkash returned as images of Malafor ran through his mind, that old man in the Rien cave, the needle he’d used to stitch Arkash’s wrists back together. Arkash blinked before the images got out of hand, but he realized he knew the instrument. “Oh, right. I didn’t know you had one of those,” Arkash returned after blinking, then went to the case of tools. Inside, he found a small box of velvet and opened it to find the grafting needle, akin to the one Malafor had used.
Raphael bowed his head. “I think you’re skilled enough to use it now, you know how wounds work…” He spoke with a trail, as though he might have reconsidered his judgment toward the end, but it was too late to turn back.
“Where were you thinking?” Arkash asked in reference to the mark. “Your chest, your back, your shoulder…” he offered a few different choices.
“My forehead,” the man replied, and pointed with a finger to the epicenter. “Right here,” he indicated with a tap.
An inquisitive raise of Arkash’s scalie brows voiced the question he didn’t spend his breath on, and Raphael nodded in return.
A sigh left the rath as he recollected the knife-sized blade. With a quick push of ether, he suffused the blade to unnatural levels of sharpness, then stepped up to the noble while he sat on the operating table. "Hold still," he warned as he lifted the blade to the man's forehead. There, his eyes stared through. Raphael became a part of the background, his skin was Arkash's focal point. A steady hand took the noble by the cheek and a thumb supported his head as Arkash measured the depths of the Veir's skin with measured presses of his fingertips.
Once he had a feel for it, he began to press the sharpened blade of blood into the man's skin, and stopped when he felt the resistance of bone. Raphael's heartbeat picked up considerably, he could feel the man's pulse against the palm of his hand.
He cast sway on the wound's tears to harden them, and prevented any further exsanguination. Steady and unwavering in the aim of his sword arm, he glided the knife an inch or two down the stretch of indicated skin, and cast sway on whatever wasted blood came to the surface. Raphael was trembling, much like Arkash had when Malafor had opened the back of his head. That same wound began to burn at the comparison, but he didn't spare it a second thought.
Instead, he cast sway to gently pull the corners of the noble's wound apart. Any ruptures that saw an increase in blood flow were quickly hardened, and eventually, the surface of Raphael's skull became bared beneath a veil of blood, which he swiped away with ease. "Last chance to turn back," Arkash offered with a tap of his claw.
"Do it..." Raphael returned, fighting the pain with bared teeth.
Arkash nodded, then lifted a claw to the crevice in the noble's skin. With the tip, he drew a circle, and then a series of eight barbs branching off it in all directions, the mark of the Vandikar. Finally, he set down the knife, collected the Grafting Needle from its case, and then activated the mark with a push of his ether. The etching began to rise a deep, malevolent glow, and Arkash quickly wove a series of Sinew threads to bind the skin. A pull saw the flesh become repaired, and Raphael's skin was unbroken... For a few brief seconds.
Raphael still shook. he trembled as Arkash began to look him over, and the Rath furrowed his brow. That feeling of terror, as though the sword of doom loomed above, and waited to drop at even the slightest step out of place, he remembered it well. And then, the man jolted, and deep red began to fill the fabric of his gown from the front. "Take it off," Arkash told, and Raphael quickly began to undress.
Unveiled became a deep, flowing wound. Arkash furrowed his brow, and immediately got to work in sewing it shut... just as another wound opened on Raphael's shoulder. The noble whimpered in pain, and his trembling worsened. When the chest wound was finally sealed, and Arkash had activated the Sinew threads, another gash appeared on Raphael's side. In a split second, he weighed the severity of the wounds, then began to suture the gash on the noble's side.
Just halfway through that one, another wound opened on the man's hip, and before Arkash even finished closing the side wound, another gash cut Raphael across the throat. Gurgling ensued, a sound the Rath knew well. At once, he seized the blood pouring down Raphael's throat and pulled it back to the wound. Raphael's hands instinctively reached for his neck as his breathing stalled, and blood poured in rivets from his mouth. Arkash took the man by the wrist and guided his back to the operating table. There, he tugged on the human's wrists and looked him in the eyes. Raphael paid him no mind, entirely focused on stopping the bleeding to his jugular. Arkash bared his teeth. More wounds opened on his legs, his arms, his body, his cheek.
When the Rath's patience grew thin, he ripped Raphael's hand from his throat wound, and quickly wove the necessary threads to bind the gash shut. With so much of the slippery fluid pouring from the wound, Arkash was strained to try and find his way through the flow. It was messy, but he manipulated the threads to catch the lining of Raphael's jugular too. Then, when he was certain enough it was right, he yanked on the needle and forced the threads to materialize as they were meant to.
At once, he cast ether leech on the man, and began to drink the excess flow of blood from the noble's veins, then moved onto the next most severe wound, suturing it shut. As he went, more gashes and slashes opened on the Necrodoctor's skin. Raphael turned his head to the side through the ordeal and coughed up the last of the blood caught in his throat while Arkash used his accumulated blight to press and hold all the man's weeping wound, to prevent them from bleeding any further until they were all shut.
Finally, he turned off the etheric skin, set the grafting needle down, and cast sway on the noble's gown to pull all the blood out of it. He took the blood from the table too and formed a ball of hardened lifeblood in his claws.
Raphael's heart thrummed weakly in his chest; it was obvious he'd lost a lot of blood in the initiation, but he'd survived the initiation with Arkash's help. A snap of his claws found Raphael unconscious. He shook his head, then moved to wait at the desk across the room. Occasionally, he checked the man over for any hard lumps in his body, anything that would signal bleeding beneath the skin, but found nothing.
Sometime later, the man awoke, calling for "water..." with a dry, strained voice. Arkash found it for him, then helped the human sit up and guided the poured cup to his lips. Raphael was sat looking awfully sorry for himself for a spell, and then, seemingly from nowhere, a smile began to creep across his lips. Arkash rose a brow. "It's done then..." The noble spoke, a dry croak to his voice. Had his voice been damaged in the initiation? Did Arkash not put his throat back together properly?
"It's done," Arkash assured. "You're a Vandikar now... But your voice is..."
"-It's fine," Raphael returned. "You saved my life, I can fix that bit."
Arkash had never seen the man so pleased. Despite his sorry, run-down state, he was smiling from ear to ear. Arkash grinned, but his eyes were laced with worry. A sigh followed, and he placed the ball of blood in Raphael's lap. "I saved this for you; you can experiment bloodshaping when you're well enough," he explained.
"...Thank you," Raphael returned, then took a deep, broken breath through his damaged throat. "Hang around the fortress for a while... Once I've regained my strength, I will initiate you... Then we can go... Sound good?"
Arkash nodded in response, then sighed deeply. "I'll head back to the guest room. Get some rest, feel better soon," Arkash assured as he let the man go, pat him on the shoulder, then offered a brief smile while he met the Necromancer's gaze, and stepped away for the exit. On his way back up the spiral staircase, he wondered if he'd done the right thing, or if the world would have been better off if he hadn't enlisted the Necromancer's help in Tyrclaid.
There wasn’t much to say on the matter of Raphael’s initiation. Arkash would repair the man’s wounds as they appeared, keep him from expiring, and then receive the mark of Nightfall himself. It was, without a doubt, very important to Raphael that he received Blood Magic, but the young Rath couldn’t seem to care less.
Raphael had kept him around for months, maneuvering the Candor and prying at Arkash’s seams, even going as far as to research his tracks through Lorien to decipher his true identity, all so that he could be initiated in the mark that was forced upon him in the bitter cold of Lorien’s Ash just a year ago. But for Arkash, it was just a means to an end; a memory best discarded once their transaction was complete.
It didn’t feel like a good idea to bestow the power of a forbidden mark on a man like Raphael, and his gut told him it was a bad idea, but with how little time he had before the Riftwick was unlocked, he needed Raphael’s help in un-merging Dorn and the others. The Necrodoctor would only help Arkash after they’d traded magic, he’d promised. So, to expedite the process, Arkash decided to initiate the man that day.
If all went according to plan, Arkash would receive the mark of nightfall, and they would both journey to Northern Tyrclaid together to repair the Amalgamation. Raphael would be able to research the Necromancer’s technique on his people, and Arkash’s village would be restored. From there on, they only stood to gain from cooperating with one another.
Arkash understood that, he understood well that their relationship benefited them mutually, but even so, he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was making a mistake by trusting the noble.
Despite the unease and the feeling of mistrust, Raphael wasn’t too big a deal, Arkash thought. In comparison to Brilan Ald, the mage was an insect. He wasn’t as much a problem as Arkash posed all the nobility of the world to be. The true reason Arkash had set out on his mission to rid the world of tyrants and oppressors wasn’t to stomp on every noble on the way; he was to aim high, to sever the head of the beast that was society, and free all those subservient that perpetuated it.
Raphael wasn’t that head, he was but a facet, a product of his world. Arkash didn’t particularly like the man; he thought Raphael too clever for his own good, but what did that matter? He wasn’t a maniac that prowled the streets looking for peasants to beat and rob. There was something to be said about his treatment of slaves, and the recycling of parts, but Arkash didn’t care for weakness. If he could escape slavery fifty times over, why couldn’t all those born so much more fortunate than him? There was no cure for cowardice.
What could Raphael do with Blood Magic? Further his own power? It wasn’t as though Raphael could openly practice the mark in public either, he was a noble with far too much to lose. He couldn’t be sloppy with it, so what did Arkash have to worry about?
Before his thoughts could spiral further, his hearing collected the sound of a presence, descending the stairs beyond the door of the underground laboratory. Arkash perked up, and focus squarely on the arched wooden door before the handle twisted, and yielded to the presence on the other side.
In came Raphael, dressed in clothes the young Rath hadn’t seen before. It was a simple gown, something he’d expect to see more at home on a surgeon than a noble. Arkash rose a brow, he supposed it made sense to wear something that was bound to get bloody during the initiation. Sheepishly, the other man let himself in and gently closed the door behind him. Arkash couldn’t deny that he found some amusement in the sight of the proud Veir so meek, but said and showed none of it.
“Alright,” Raphael began as he brushed himself off and approached the Rathor “…I’m ready, what now?”
Arkash nodded and straightened his back as he looked the human up and down. “…Now, you want to open your safe, so I can use your tools,” he offered with a gesture to the low-standing cupboard across the room.
Raphael rose both brows, nodded quickly, then stepped across the room to open the doors. He barely met the Rathor’s eyes as he walked, it was a behavior much unlike the noble Arkash had come to know, almost unrecognizable. Despite his cold ambivalence toward the human, he did wonder what the nature of the shift in disposition was. The situation? Being initiated by a peasant? Was it maybe his clothes? His analysis was fruitless, but he was interested nonetheless.
When Raphael returned with the tools and set them on the nearby operating table, Arkash nodded his approval and clasped his claws together. “Alright… Where do you want it?”
“The mark?” Raphael asked. “Uh, right. I’ve thought about it a lot, actually… Are you comfortable with-.” He paused, eyes fixed on the Rathor.
“…What?” Arkash returned once the silence had stretched uncomfortably long.
Raphael exhaled deeply, trailing his thoughts with his breath. “…Cutting me,” Raphael answered at last. “I wanted the mark to be under my under my skin, so you’d have to cut me open…” he explained his hesitance, quite literally putting himself beneath the knife of a man who’d sworn to dismantle the system he thrived on.
Arkash smiled. “…Second thoughts?”
Raphael curled his nose a little, as though he’d read the offer as a challenge. “No, I’m still quite certain,” he affirmed. “You don’t want to kill me, you need me for your project in Tyrclaid,” he told. Arkash rose a brow. If he didn’t know any better, he would have said that Raphael was trying to assure himself. But if he wasn’t afraid, then there was no issue with him drawing his sword, right? With some force to his Arm, Arkash unsheathed the jagged black blade and twirled it in his claws. Effortlessly, the blade cut through and wove with the air. “Ulen’s mercy… Not with that!” He called, eyes wide before his brows furrowed in a flash of anger.
The rath took hold of his recent chest wound with an arm as he laughed, throwing his head back with glee.
Raphael frowned. “I’m serious,” he declared. “Use a smaller blade.”
With a sigh, Arkash let a little more than three-quarters of the sword fall to the ground with a sharp clatter, and shaped the remaining blade from the handle with Sway and Bloodshaping. “…This better?” he asked as he wiped tears from his eyes. “The look on your face… priceless,” he added.
“Shut up,” returned the noble. “I know this is a surgeon’s gown, but I’d rather not make too much of a mess of it. Could you…?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll be careful,” Arkash assured, and set the knife down as he cast a glance to the tools. With a nod, he stepped across the room and fetched a gallon jar of Sinew Foam before he set it on the table.
“…What are you doing?” Raphael returned with a furrow to his brow.
Arkash returned that confused squint, then shrugged. “Well, I don’t have any bodies here to mash up, so…” He spoke in reference to the mortar and pestle.
“Oh,” Raphael returned. “Oh, don’t even bother with the Sinew Gun. You can use the grafting needle for this,” he spoke with a gesture.
“…Needle?” Arkash returned as images of Malafor ran through his mind, that old man in the Rien cave, the needle he’d used to stitch Arkash’s wrists back together. Arkash blinked before the images got out of hand, but he realized he knew the instrument. “Oh, right. I didn’t know you had one of those,” Arkash returned after blinking, then went to the case of tools. Inside, he found a small box of velvet and opened it to find the grafting needle, akin to the one Malafor had used.
Raphael bowed his head. “I think you’re skilled enough to use it now, you know how wounds work…” He spoke with a trail, as though he might have reconsidered his judgment toward the end, but it was too late to turn back.
“Where were you thinking?” Arkash asked in reference to the mark. “Your chest, your back, your shoulder…” he offered a few different choices.
“My forehead,” the man replied, and pointed with a finger to the epicenter. “Right here,” he indicated with a tap.
An inquisitive raise of Arkash’s scalie brows voiced the question he didn’t spend his breath on, and Raphael nodded in return.
A sigh left the rath as he recollected the knife-sized blade. With a quick push of ether, he suffused the blade to unnatural levels of sharpness, then stepped up to the noble while he sat on the operating table. "Hold still," he warned as he lifted the blade to the man's forehead. There, his eyes stared through. Raphael became a part of the background, his skin was Arkash's focal point. A steady hand took the noble by the cheek and a thumb supported his head as Arkash measured the depths of the Veir's skin with measured presses of his fingertips.
Once he had a feel for it, he began to press the sharpened blade of blood into the man's skin, and stopped when he felt the resistance of bone. Raphael's heartbeat picked up considerably, he could feel the man's pulse against the palm of his hand.
He cast sway on the wound's tears to harden them, and prevented any further exsanguination. Steady and unwavering in the aim of his sword arm, he glided the knife an inch or two down the stretch of indicated skin, and cast sway on whatever wasted blood came to the surface. Raphael was trembling, much like Arkash had when Malafor had opened the back of his head. That same wound began to burn at the comparison, but he didn't spare it a second thought.
Instead, he cast sway to gently pull the corners of the noble's wound apart. Any ruptures that saw an increase in blood flow were quickly hardened, and eventually, the surface of Raphael's skull became bared beneath a veil of blood, which he swiped away with ease. "Last chance to turn back," Arkash offered with a tap of his claw.
"Do it..." Raphael returned, fighting the pain with bared teeth.
Arkash nodded, then lifted a claw to the crevice in the noble's skin. With the tip, he drew a circle, and then a series of eight barbs branching off it in all directions, the mark of the Vandikar. Finally, he set down the knife, collected the Grafting Needle from its case, and then activated the mark with a push of his ether. The etching began to rise a deep, malevolent glow, and Arkash quickly wove a series of Sinew threads to bind the skin. A pull saw the flesh become repaired, and Raphael's skin was unbroken... For a few brief seconds.
Raphael still shook. he trembled as Arkash began to look him over, and the Rath furrowed his brow. That feeling of terror, as though the sword of doom loomed above, and waited to drop at even the slightest step out of place, he remembered it well. And then, the man jolted, and deep red began to fill the fabric of his gown from the front. "Take it off," Arkash told, and Raphael quickly began to undress.
Unveiled became a deep, flowing wound. Arkash furrowed his brow, and immediately got to work in sewing it shut... just as another wound opened on Raphael's shoulder. The noble whimpered in pain, and his trembling worsened. When the chest wound was finally sealed, and Arkash had activated the Sinew threads, another gash appeared on Raphael's side. In a split second, he weighed the severity of the wounds, then began to suture the gash on the noble's side.
Just halfway through that one, another wound opened on the man's hip, and before Arkash even finished closing the side wound, another gash cut Raphael across the throat. Gurgling ensued, a sound the Rath knew well. At once, he seized the blood pouring down Raphael's throat and pulled it back to the wound. Raphael's hands instinctively reached for his neck as his breathing stalled, and blood poured in rivets from his mouth. Arkash took the man by the wrist and guided his back to the operating table. There, he tugged on the human's wrists and looked him in the eyes. Raphael paid him no mind, entirely focused on stopping the bleeding to his jugular. Arkash bared his teeth. More wounds opened on his legs, his arms, his body, his cheek.
When the Rath's patience grew thin, he ripped Raphael's hand from his throat wound, and quickly wove the necessary threads to bind the gash shut. With so much of the slippery fluid pouring from the wound, Arkash was strained to try and find his way through the flow. It was messy, but he manipulated the threads to catch the lining of Raphael's jugular too. Then, when he was certain enough it was right, he yanked on the needle and forced the threads to materialize as they were meant to.
At once, he cast ether leech on the man, and began to drink the excess flow of blood from the noble's veins, then moved onto the next most severe wound, suturing it shut. As he went, more gashes and slashes opened on the Necrodoctor's skin. Raphael turned his head to the side through the ordeal and coughed up the last of the blood caught in his throat while Arkash used his accumulated blight to press and hold all the man's weeping wound, to prevent them from bleeding any further until they were all shut.
Finally, he turned off the etheric skin, set the grafting needle down, and cast sway on the noble's gown to pull all the blood out of it. He took the blood from the table too and formed a ball of hardened lifeblood in his claws.
Raphael's heart thrummed weakly in his chest; it was obvious he'd lost a lot of blood in the initiation, but he'd survived the initiation with Arkash's help. A snap of his claws found Raphael unconscious. He shook his head, then moved to wait at the desk across the room. Occasionally, he checked the man over for any hard lumps in his body, anything that would signal bleeding beneath the skin, but found nothing.
Sometime later, the man awoke, calling for "water..." with a dry, strained voice. Arkash found it for him, then helped the human sit up and guided the poured cup to his lips. Raphael was sat looking awfully sorry for himself for a spell, and then, seemingly from nowhere, a smile began to creep across his lips. Arkash rose a brow. "It's done then..." The noble spoke, a dry croak to his voice. Had his voice been damaged in the initiation? Did Arkash not put his throat back together properly?
"It's done," Arkash assured. "You're a Vandikar now... But your voice is..."
"-It's fine," Raphael returned. "You saved my life, I can fix that bit."
Arkash had never seen the man so pleased. Despite his sorry, run-down state, he was smiling from ear to ear. Arkash grinned, but his eyes were laced with worry. A sigh followed, and he placed the ball of blood in Raphael's lap. "I saved this for you; you can experiment bloodshaping when you're well enough," he explained.
"...Thank you," Raphael returned, then took a deep, broken breath through his damaged throat. "Hang around the fortress for a while... Once I've regained my strength, I will initiate you... Then we can go... Sound good?"
Arkash nodded in response, then sighed deeply. "I'll head back to the guest room. Get some rest, feel better soon," Arkash assured as he let the man go, pat him on the shoulder, then offered a brief smile while he met the Necromancer's gaze, and stepped away for the exit. On his way back up the spiral staircase, he wondered if he'd done the right thing, or if the world would have been better off if he hadn't enlisted the Necromancer's help in Tyrclaid.
