Right Before Nightfall

[Asphodel Avarice]

Frost 75th, Year 4621

Even in what was "supposedly" the coldest season of the year, during the day? It always felt too hot. Especially for the young fox rathor. No matter how tightly she bundled her clothes around her it felt as though she was going to melt. At least the cold she could deal with. Fires were a good way of fighting off the cold and ever since her coming of age ceremony the warmth of her own pelt was a brilliant addition. The heat was something else entirely. Some of the older rathor she'd once lived with had been able to deal with the heat without too much worry, their bodies well made for these kinds of temperatures. Animals that were supposed to live in badlands. Asphodel had come to realize that she wasn't one such beast. She knew that whatever she was, it was probably better made for a forest than hot rocks and little water. She knew there were foxes made for this kind of environment, but remis to say she wasn't one of them.

So now here she walked, relegated to traveling just a couple of hours before sundown when the temperature was still relatively bearable. Even then the hear was searing, her ears twitching under the heavy cloak and headscarf that kept her skin from turning a blistering red. She wished she didn't have to walk, but she couldn't afford to waste the fuel on a hunting trip. Her chariot was for one thing and one thing alone, escaping storms. She couldn't risk getting close to one. So by extension, she couldn't risk wasting the fuel. When it came to searching for food in the nearby area, it was safer to walk on foot and save her chariot's fuel for when she needed to get somewhere else far away. Or water. Water was one of those things she couldn't really scavenge unless she planned to pick a fight, but, even for someone of her skill set, that really wasn't the safest thing to do.

At the very least, she got a liberty most in her situation couldn't even dream of. She could at least have ice cold water, even in this type of temperature. The canteen resting loosely on her hip had grown warm, but at her skill level it'd only take a little bit of effort to turn some of the water at the bottom into ice and reap the rewards of an ice cold drink. Just a little something to keep her sane. It didn't matter though. The sun would be down soon, then it'd be cool and her feet would stop feeling like the soles of her boots were melting. Something that had in fact actually happened before when she accidentally left too early, but that was the mistake of a younger and more foolish Asphodel who'd only just been getting used to the Badlands. She was used to it at this point.

Yeah, surely nothing could surprise her!

Or, so the foolish might assume. And Asphodel in all her grand foolishness was taken entirely off guard as she crested a hill and her gaze landed upon a nearby crag. Instead of finding animals to hunt, the figure already lying there... well, either she was going insane from heatstroke, or that was person.

[Arkash]

Pain. That was all that had become of his reality in the hour proceeding the events at the Fort. Every step yielded more resistance than the last, and the forced trudge eventually became so cumbersome that he didn't even notice the burn of the sand against his clawed feet. He was bleeding, a condition Arkash had not worried about for more than a year with his mutated, thickened blood. Quickly, he'd always coagulated and resumed the fight without any worry about his stamina, but not now, not anymore.
His vision seemed to throb as he lifted his gaze from the sand, and darkness crept in around the corners of his sight. The world appeared cracked, broken as though he was staring at the pronounced veins in his retina, like streaks of black lightning coursed through the sky with every step. His breathing, his own heartbeat, loud in his ears as he half-assed climbed the dune, dripping his rich red lifeblood through the sand.
All was not lost though, not with his shirt wrapped around his head. The blistering heat of the evening sun couldn't overheat his ectothermic head, even if the basalt shade of his scales eagerly drank the harsh rays as a means of maintaining his body's movement.
Copious, yellowed drool hung from the corner of his mouth at a slant, on the side at which he limped. It was his venom, he recognized as he slurped the excess fluid back into his mouth, and swallowed without care. He couldn't afford to lose fluid in the badlands, but his anxious ticking saw the production of his venom rouse and awaken.

His black sword sung with every thrust into the sandy ground and hummed with every pull. It was a glorified walking stick as it had been purposed, and with the suffusion cast upon it, Arkash did not worry for the sharpness of the blood blade.

When at last he made it to the top of the dune, he slurped the excess drool from his jaws and looked over his shoulder while his chest expanded and pulled quickly. Nothing, just vast sands that stretched far, to the distant river far beyond his limited eyesight. He shut his natural eye and peered with the human eye that had been placed in his skull. If he had to guess, he'd maybe made it two miles into the badlands?
A glance down saw both his yellowed eyes open, and he peeled his hand from his chest to see the rich red of his blood, dripping patterns in the sand from his claws. His burlap pants were soaked in it, the stuff ran down his side and trickled rivers over his foot claws. His slender tongue felt swollen in his dry mouth, beneath the pressure of the inside of his skull. Was he dying?

As his shaky legs began to descend the dune, his sword arm gave out from under him, and he fell. Quickly, he skidded down the steep slope of sand, but as unbalanced as he was, he soon turned over and began to tumble and roll before collapsing in a pile at the foot of the dune. The one saving grace of the fall was that his sword at least fell the rest of the way, and landed beside him.
As he lifted himself to his knees, he supported himself with one hand and aggressively hacked and coughed in an effort to dislodge whatever was stuck inside him. It was in his lungs, it disrupted the beat of his heart and darkened his vision so severely that it almost looked like night. White-knuckled, he gripped his wound with his claws, and tried to squeeze the substance from his body... to no avail. "Fuck..." He cursed, and bared his teeth as he lifted his gaze to his sword.
Heaving ragged, broken breaths, he took the blade at the handle and pushed himself to his feet.
Directionless, he continued his ascent of the next dune. He didn't know where Amoren was, but without the resonator, he had no other means of finding help. Arkash was alone, lost in the desert with just the distant glimmer of hope to power his dying body.

He began to grunt and push as he climbed the sandy hill, baring his teeth as his yellowed drool ran a mess over his scales. He trembled and shook something awful as his guts twisted and writhed within and below his chest. Actively, he fought the crushing pain in his lungs... until it seized his heart.
All at once, his resistance and fight were totaled, and his neck tensed with his jaw as he fell to one knee, and pushed both hands into the sand. Incredible strain overcame him as all his muscles engaged the pressure at his core, and tried in vain to hold through the storm in his chest.
Finally, it broke. His heart resumed its irregular beating, pumping much-needed oxygen from his bound lungs to his muscles and brain. Shaky, his hand returned to his injured side, and the tremors continued as he pushed to his feet, fell to the side, got up again, and continued his ascent.
When finally, he reached the top of the dune, where a crag offered meager protection from the sun, he dragged his blade to the nearest wall, dropped it, and fell against the surface with a lean that saw most of his weight lean into the solid rock. His legs had support once more, but he hadn't the strength to carry himself further.
With his head pressed against the shaded rock, he breathed deeply, and bared his teeth. The stark black lightning that was his disrupted vision became grainy and broken as his body desperately routed its resources to his vitals, putting the preservation of his life above all else. Despite that, he saw something deep within the rock, some shape that didn't quite make sense, oddly straight for something to naturally occur.

It didn't matter, he thought and turned to press his back to the rock. There, his wrapped head met the crag, and he dragged the mage-inflicted burn on his back down the surface to fall in a pile at the bottom of the crag. There, he found his body unable to move. His gaze cast upward, where the throbbing rise of black lightning filled his limited vision against the stark contrast of the bright blue sky.
There he breathed and shut his eyes while he drew air through his messy, dry mouth, and tried to expel some of the heat from his form. Even though he was a reptile, he wasn't meant for the incredible heat of the Badlands, his species was more at home in arid tropics, the sand didn't suit him. His humanoid form wasn't an option, as he couldn't afford to waste water on sweat, not with how much he'd bled already.
He stayed there for some time, assuring himself that he was just resting, that he'd be back up and on the road to Amoren soon, even when he felt his focus slipping and his breathing slowing, he remained still in the comfortable clasp of stone.

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[Asphodel Avarice]

The Badlands were not a kind land, far from it. All sand and rock, too arid, harsh enough that one might think their lungs would start to bleed if they stayed there too long. For the unlikely, that might be precisely the case. Sand clogging the lungs while the blood turned thick and sluggish, lacking the water necessary to flow. If one was lucky they'd survive the day only to be picked off by the vicious chill of the night. The Badlands were a horrible place to die, and yet, so many found it their grave for one reason or another. The fool who entered these lands injured already, weak and struggling, surely should not have lived. That was a law of this place.

Asphodel didn't care for laws.

Luckily the direction from which she approached gave her a good view of the crag, some form of abysmal shade in this dreaded heat. Places with water and places with shade were good hunting grounds, though one had to be careful not to consume meat that was already diseased. This area, she'd hunted it before. She'd caught scant few meals here, but it was enough.

This was not a meal...

At least, Asphodel didn't think it was?

No, the longer she looked at the figure wrapped up loosely the more she thought that it seemed too strangely shaped to be anything but a person. A rather scraggly, injured looking lump of person, but a person none the less. Now, this wasn't the first time something like this had happened to Asphodel admittedly. While the biggest problem were raiders, common bandits who didn't belong to any of the major groups also stalked the dunes and occasionally groups that were desperate enough would set traps in the form of scenes that reminded her of this one. Traps specifically catered to prey on those seldom few too kind or too greedy for their own good. Those either looking to help or those looking to raid the corpse. Admittedly, even knowing the vast majority were traps, they were a trap that Asphodel always fell into without hesitation. She'd never once failed to get out of them yet, and frankly, if it was someone actually in need she wasn't willing to leave them on their own.

As far as she could tell, it didn't seem like there was anyone lying in wait anyway. While bandits were clever she knew a fair couple of signs that came with stings like these. This instead seemed to be the case of some poor fool caught out in the sun. Probably worse for the wear, but she'd have to get closer to actually know for sure. She shot off without hesitation, darting across the dunes with a practiced kind of grace. It was a waste of her own resources to rush, expending her own energy and risking excessive sweating, but she had no idea what kind of shape the strange was in so she considered it well worth the decision.

Depending on if they were injured or not she'd have to bring them to her temporary home, which would be an even bigger drain of resources, but her heart twinged at the idea of just... leaving them. She wasn't a saint by any means, but Asphodel was a bleeding heart, and something about this entire situation struck her as familiar. There was a time years ago where her own savior could have passed her by, where Asphodel could have been left to die, but she wasn't. Be it rathor nature or just the disposition of herself and those who raised her, she couldn't just turn the other way. So she ran, making it to the crag as quickly as possible without nearly falling. The person was stained with crimson, very obviously bleeding, and probably terribly dehydrated if she had to hazard a guess. Were they even conscious at this point? "Uhm, are you still awake?" She asked hesitantly, watching for any signs of movement. While she didn't fully expect a response, she wasn't going to risk being attacked because she snuck up on which she thought constitutes as a wounded animal.

[Arkash]

Deep in his stupor, born of blood loss and excessive heat, Arkash hadn't the sense to take action on the scent in the wind. His focus, scattered and uncoordinated, laid solely on keeping himself awake while his vision waned and his breathing turned shallow.
He had to start moving again, he had to will his legs to move to perpetuate his consciousness. Motion was the only thing that would keep him awake, but it also meant that his bleeding would be heavier as his heartbeat picked up. It raced against the bars of his ribs while it pushed the little he had left to his veins through his system in a desperate effort to distribute oxygen to the most important parts of his body, the parts that weren't clogged and rendered useless.

When her question came, Arkash's eyes opened wide, then glanced with strain in her direction. His burlap-wrapped head rolled on the stone to peer at her. A woman, shrouded in cloaks. A badlander, as he recognized her. Just like Miki and Izul? Just... Less red, more blurry.
"Yeah," he answered. "I'm awake," he clarified after sneaking a breath to recover from the strain of speaking.
It was a futile effort, not to show weakness, when he'd bled across half the desert and laid slumped, motionless against a crag. What did it matter anyway? He wasn't much longer for the world. "...I've got no money," he declared, then pressed the claws of his free hand into the shaded, cool rock in a dull effort to sit up straighter.
The shaded stone had done well to drink and steal the excess heat in his blood, and helped his heart to steady and bleed less, but it also meant that he was stiffer, slower to move. Perhaps it wasn't wise to collapse there? Not when he was so far from his weapon, surrounded by Gods-only-knows who.
His misty eyes fell upon the black sword, not far from her feet, then lifted to her again.

"...You can have it," he declared after a deep breath, then released it through his nose. "It's all I've got..."
Again, the Rathor slurped at the copious drool as it hung from the side of his mouth, then swallowed the cool fluids as his mouth continued its production of copious venoms, laden with toxic bacteria. After swallowing, his lips parted again to breathe deeply. A pull of his knee saw no movement in his leg, and he brought the back of his head to rest against the rock once more.
The blade itself was a twisted thing, jagged and wicked in its design. The metallurgy was unlike anything a blacksmith would produce, as it appeared to have hardened from fluid, with various drips, curves, and bulges in the blade's flat to indicate it had been rapidly hardened from its liquid form. The blade itself was serrated with hundreds and hundreds of tiny teeth, hook-like in their design and distributed infrequently along its length. It was a weapon that was designed to catch flesh, and rip it with the weight of the pull, but the steel used was not known to any smithy.

"...'Course, if you're willin'..." Arkash started. "...And if you've got any food..." He continued, and shut his eyes. His mouth was open, but he focused his sense of smell on her, searching her being for something edible. "...I wouldn' mind tradin' ya..."
It was unclear if his dranoch healing would save him from the injury on his side, but he knew his odds were better if he'd feed on a mortal. Obviously, the stranger didn't have to take him up on the offered trade. She could just take his sword and go.
But he had to try, right? If he could convince the stranger to step closer, just close enough to land a good bite, that might be enough to save him.

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[Asphodel Avarice]

It wouldn't take a genius to tell he was bleeding out. Slowly, but steadily. Teetering on the edge between this life and his next. Asphodel was no genius, but she knew the basics from living in the Badlands this long. She'd seen many pass through, and she'd seen many die. Pity wasn't the right word for what she felt. More so, it was a feeling closer to sympathy. "I don't want your money, your sword, or your life," she said. If she didn't know the Badlands as well as the next she probably would have felt more insulted by the implication. Not to mention, she doubted he was all there mentally. He seemed pretty out of it. Movements slow, thoughts too slow. It was taking him a while to respond. If anything he was probably more instinct that person at this point. The border between life and death was one to be danced often in the Badlands, but for a Rathor, so was the line between mortal and beast. She'd surely walked it once or twice. Too out of it and too feral to understand things that only a mortal brain could begin to comprehend. Running on raw instinct and a desire to live.

This stranger was dying, slowly, but dying none the less. She was almost shocked he could speak.

So Asphodel had two options right now. Her first option was leaving this stranger to die. It wouldn't be hard. They had no connection outside of species, and living in the Badlands had very quickly taught her that even the bond shared universally by Rathor was driven thin in these wastes. She could leave and it wouldn't be her problem. This was something that happened all the time. The first option was a hesitant kind of temptation rising up at the back of her mind. She'd taken pity on people before, and in a place like this, pity didn't server one well. But at her core she was also a person who struggled with empathy, much to much of it. She'd be the first to admonish herself for being an idiot in that regard. Willing to step out on a limb for fools and turn coats, unable to turn her back on a stranger without the strange flaring ache in her chest begging her to turn around. She could leave now. It would bear no lasting impact, and there wasn't even a guarantee this stranger would die.

But, their eyes just so happened to meet. A heartbeat, a single moment in time, that's all it took. Inky black lines had made a home for themselves in this stranger's gaze, and it took only a heartbeat for her to understand. Nightfall. An initiation failed no doubt, given the state he was in. Perhaps not quite lethal yet but no doubt painful. He could live. He could also die. If not to the blood loss, then surely to the congealing umbralplasm clogging his veins. She didn't know if she could remove it, she was pretty certain that was outside her skill set actually. Maybe she could just, move it around a little bit though. Try to shift it so it clogged his stomach instead of his heart, pass it along and give it time to settle in his soul, heavy and solid and blocking off every other magic he might have had before, but he'd still be there. Still alive. If nothing else, being alive always meant a second chance.

A second chance he most certainly wouldn't get if Asphodel left. So again, she was left to struggle, standing here, it was her choice.

Who was she kidding? She'd already made her choice long before she even found this stranger.

"You... probably aren't going to like this," she said as she pulled the canteen from her hip and uncapped it. The cloths were too thick to see much of her, and movement only revealed the slightest hint of what was her human form. For the day it was more comfortable, lacking her thick fur. Even her face was slightly obscured by a piece of fabric noticeably similar to a veil. "I apologize in advance," she said with a sigh. She was generous, but not an idiot. A cornered animal was prone to bite even a hand trying to help it.

A good portion of the water flew from the canteen in a long tendril, wrapping itself loosely around the stranger. She didn't want him trying to lunge at her. It'd be... unpleasant if he hit her and it'd just make his own injuries worse. She needed to be careful not to squeeze him too tightly with the tendril of course, but given how sluggish his movements already were this was just a precaution.

She kneeled down, quick to grab his jaw and make sure he wouldn't snap at her. She didn't like the color of that drool, and she didn't know what kind of species he was, but she knew some Rathor had venom and she was taking no chances. "Drink," she said, pressing the lip of the canteen to his mouth. It wasn't a request, but an order. She had other canteens back home, so it wasn't a major loss, but she didn't see herself drinking out of this one for a long while. The tendril did server a second purpose outside just binding the stranger, it ensured there was a limited amount of water still left in the canteen. She didn't know how dehydrated or starving this man was, but overloading his system would just make him sick. Neither of them could afford the wasted water, so the bottom of the canteen was all he'd get for now until she could do a better assessment of what kind of shape he was in. And ensure he wasn't going to try and bite her arm off... For all she knew he had the Madness, so it was better safe than sorry on all accounts.

She didn't risk changing the temperature of the water too much, since it was still fairly close to evening and she had no clues about his internal body temperature. If she did more damage than good then he might die on her, and that would be a major waste of water she really didn't have the energy to deal with. Admittedly, taking him home with her was an even bigger waste of a water, but those eyes... Her angel had warned her what happens to those who fail a Nightfall initiation when she was a child. Those inky black stripes running across his eyes, like eyes that were bloodshot but not quite. She could still remember how much her initiation had hurt, both of them, how scary they'd been. It wasn't pity, no, this stranger seemed too strong for something as stupid as pity, but she felt sympathy and empathy enough that maybe, just maybe, she could try and help.

After she was satisfied with how much water he'd gotten in his system, she pulled first herself and then the canteen away from him. "So are you going to sit here and burn or do you want to come home with me? While I can't necessarily promise I have the type of food you need, I can go hunting later once the sun is down." While the chill of the Badlands was exceedingly dangerous at night, Asphodel did have the advantage of being able to turn into a particularly furry fox, which in turn could make hunting smaller prey items a lot easier. She'd make due, somehow. "At the very least, I can make sure your wounds don't kill you before you get a proper meal in you."

[Arkash]

A keen eye might have noticed the bulge of his veins, which shifted under his scales as the inky darkness he'd ingested worked its way to his soul, moving through everything in its path. He'd already lost access to his mark, but the permanence of the effect had yet to set in. It was an injury in his mind; a side effect from being initiated in another magic; a normal part of the process. In time, he would regain his power, and the ability to create Umbralplasm, too.
All of that was so far from the forefront of his mind, though. In the haze of blood loss, pain, and dehydration, all the young Rath could think about was his own survival. For that, he would have eaten the morsel that wandered upon him, regardless of their innocence. He still had more to do, what was the sacrifice of one for all those he could help?
Alas, he was so out of it, that it was only after she'd seized his muzzle that his focus returned, and his mouth was held shut. The cocktail of toxic bacteria and venom that hung from his lips showed a yellowish amber in the shade of the crag. The places where it dried on his jaw, flakes of the stuff came loose and brittle away with so much as a brush.
The stark black lightning shot across her features with every beat of his heart, and though he tried to focus his eyes on her, all the mess in his vision and the weight in his heart made it hard to do so much as draw breath.

He found her water around him as he shifted to move, but he didn't struggle, he couldn't. If she wanted to, she could have cleaved his neck open with his own sword, but she'd already said she didn't want his life, as well as a few other things that he barely remembered. Even so, his pupils were like pinpricks on the misty yellow of his eyes, and the squeeze of his hand on his wound only tightened as his whole body flooded with tension... Or at least tried to with its limited resources.
Then the rim of her canteen met his dry lips, and his breathing stopped. He couldn't see past his own nose, but he knew the smell, the feel. When the clean water met his palette through the straw-like gap in his lip, his pupils dilated somewhat just a moment before his eyes shut, and he drank however much she gave him.
When he was done, he let out a shaky breath, swallowed again, and opened his eyes to focus on the stranger, but she was already standing. the taste of water was still fresh on his mind, and though she'd helped him, his stomach was still empty. "Haa... Home..?" He asked, uncertain. A wince pulled back his lips to reveal rows of razor-sharp teeth, serrated in nature, much like his black sword.
Though her help was suspicious, to say the least, Arkash couldn't decipher what she could extort him for. He'd already said he had no money, and with no goods visible on his person, what could she want? He already knew his life had passed through her hands without issue, so what was her angle? "I'll come..." he agreed, and found the strength to roll over and support himself with one hand.
"I jus' don't-" he paused as the grip of the Umbralplasm arrested his chest again, and squeezed his respiratory system in place. He felt as his own beating heart fought the squeeze, and raced as immense pressure built up in his head. His whole body fought the sensation, fighting the Umbralplasm with naught but muscle and bone. Again, it came to pass, and Arkash was left breathless. He panted there on the floor, pulling on his lungs as his heart steadied, and distributed much-needed blood and oxygen to his writhing organs.

After a moment, he used the crag to help himself up, and steadied himself against it while he held the wall. "...Thank you," he finished. "Sorry..." he added. "I'm... Getting initiated," he explained. "It's a rough one... Rougher than last time..."
When he looked upon her, through the haze and mess in his vision, he still saw the remnant of food he'd seen before, the promise of his survival, but it was so much less prominent than before. She offered to help him, to provide for him. After a moment, he nodded gently, then quickly.
"...I'll pay you back," he promised. "Everyfink- Thing," he corrected. "I'll pay it all back," he assured. But without so much as a whiff of direction for the stranger's angle, he didn't know what she could possibly want. "Seriously, friend..." he added with just a moment of hesitation. "I owe you proper..."

Image source.

[Asphodel Avarice]

"Nightfall. I'm aware," she said, eyes trailing his form a little closer. It was hard to tell with the shade of his scale, but there it was. The bulge of his veins, unnatural as they struggled against the liquid darkness. He didn't know yet. There was a small moment of mourning for Asphodel, who knew she'd very well have to be the one to explain. She could already tell this was a failed initiation. While she only had the knowledge of her own, she'd gotten a lot of second hand information from her angel. While most failed their initiations in the later stages, a good few failed in the earlier stages. These were usually the ones who perished. For them it was almost a kinder fate. To have your own magic almost completely cleaved from your being, with only a very select few able to extract the ingested umbralplasm. Yeah, for most mages? Death was a hell of a lot kinder. When she was younger, a part of Asphodel had thought she wouldn't mind being cut clean from baptism. The part of her that resented the fact she'd survived that first initiation and the treatment that came along with it. Now? She could hardly imagine few things that were worse than the complete and total loss. So, of course her heart twinged for the man as she retracted her tendril back into the canteen and he tried to stand.

That being said, she saw something in him still. Something alive and desperate and almost hopeful. Something hurt beyond all belief, but Asphodel had never met a completely sane and uninjured adult person in her entire life. Tragedy and trauma were par for the course of mortality, and yet, some decided that in spite of that they wished to live.

This man, regardless of his story, was one of those. Something about him even now was still burning and Asphodel wanted to reach for it. Wounded as it was, a voice in the back of her mind told her to reach out and kindle that slowly dimming. So she did. "Here, lean on my shoulder," she said, offering to act as a crutch. She needed to get him to her camp as soon as possible. While it wasn't exactly a house, at her core she was still part fox, so she was good at finding small caves or building burrows to ride out the wild temperatures. If worst came to worst she had her tent, but usually she could make due with natural shelters. Luckily for the both of them, the cave she'd found was a fair bit bigger than usual and there weren't any storms in the vicinity. As long as the winds didn't shift on her, they'd be able to camp out a couple days longer. Enough to make sure the man wasn't going to fall apart on her. "Here, hold still a moment, this might sting," she said, resting a splayed hand against his chest.

The umbralplasm was most heavily condensed in his heart and lungs. She was starting to put the story together little by little. It didn't seem like he had a weak constitution, but he was probably attacked or something of the like not long after the initiation. If she had to guess that was probably what caused it start to slow. There was a certain pace that it simply must flow when running through the body, and it had stalled out just after seeping from his stomach. She couldn't fix this. She wasn't anywhere near skilled enough to fix it. His magic was as good as gone. She could try and make sure he lived though. The umbralplasm regardless would continue to try and make its journey to his soul even if it settled wrong. All she had to do was make sure it didn't linger too longer or too heavily in any major organs. So she pushed. It was far from easy, her mark straining against the effort it took. She was careful not to push herself too far, but she helped to smooth the umbralplasm as best she could, pushing it to different parts of his body so as it coalesced it was a little thinner. Under normal circumstances this probably wouldn't be possible. Usually the ingested umbralplasm for the purpose of an initiation couldn't be controlled like this. Perhaps, even, that was part of what went wrong in the first place. It might have been the initiator themselves who partially botched things which had led to the current state. Yeah, that was it, wasn't it? The initiator made sure things intentionally went wrong. It was sad, but in ways it was also lucky, because that meant that Asphodel could at least exert some manner of control over the substance. If not to a great degree, at least enough to make sure he lived.

"There," she said, pulling her hand away and helping the man readjust his weight so she was carrying a decent chunk of it. "That should help a bit," she said. She didn't want to cause any unneeded stress for the time being. His body was in the throes of trying to recover from a lot of trauma. It needs all of its resources to be focused on that. Adding anxiety to the mixture would just make things worse. So she didn't tell him the full details. For now. She would, but she wanted to make sure he wouldn't keel over immediately first. "My name is Asphodel by the way. Lets go home."

[Arkash]

He wasn't doing a very good job of hiding his weakness, he realized as the girl came to support him. The thought that he needed help walking spoke volumes to how he might have appeared, and the fact that he didn't refuse the offered help said even more.
At first, he let her take some of his weight, then a little more as he found she could support him. That was decidedly good, while he rested an arm on her shoulders. Arkash was lithe and light, almost devoid of any weight that wasn't just his scales and bones.
It was with a shaky sigh that Arkash resigned himself to his fate; wounded, helpless, dependant. For someone like Arkash, the shame of depending on another was just a touch short of the alternative, in terms of grief. But what was he to say? Shrug off the help of a kind soul? Arkash already knew such a thing was rare in the world, he didn't need to thin their numbers even further.
Despite his shame, he found comfort enough to let his eyes close in the human's support. He exhaled deeply, then parted his eyelids just a bit as her hand met his chest. All of a sudden, he was made to draw breath against his will, like something of a deep, startled gasp. It was startling, to feel his lungs and heart twist in such a way, and eventually settle with the weight of the Umbralplasm.
His eyes were wide with shock, and his gaze was brought to her while his mouth hung agape, dripping venom. "...What did you do?" he asked with a sudden bout of clarity. "...That feels- So much better, I can breathe again!" he called, a smile curling in his features, just a moment before he slurped up the thick, viscous fluid.

"Asphodel," He spoke, the name rolling off his tongue while he considered it. It didn't sound very human-like, not like Nathan or Barry, he resolved. She must have been an elf, but as wrapped as she was, it was hard to tell... Maybe just raised by elves? "Thank you, thank you again," he returned once he'd finished his thoughts.
"My bleeding should slow a bit, so long as I stay in the shade... is the sun going down soon?" His blood always coagulated easier in the cold, namely because his bleeding slowed due to the slowed beat of his heart. Granted, it was hard to stay awake in such a condition, but it was better than dying.
When he checked his claws, which were utterly caked in dried crimson, flaky in its clinginess, he found that his side wound only bled shallowly. The gaping crater there had almost taken the impression of his claws, from how firmly he squeezed it. A sigh of relief followed the sight, it was good that all his efforts to compress the wound had paid off, even if it still wept.
"Arkash," he replied when he remembered she'd introduced herself, still a little wobbly on his feet from all the blood he'd lost. "You're a real life-saver, Asphodel, I don't know... What I would'a done if you weren't here." Died was most likely, he knew, but he didn't linger on the thought.

Finally, he breathed easier, thought clearly, and became aware of the throbbing weight in his chest. Though the Umbralplasm was softer, it was still there, like thick padding that wrapped around his most vital parts. It was heavy, but it wasn't worming through him and clogging up his insides.
Asphodel had manipulated the Umbralplasm within him... or was it his blood? No, Arkash was the pinnacle of a blood mage, just short of ascension. He couldn't even manage such a feat. Was she perhaps another Nightfallen? In addition to her water magic?
"That sounds good..." he returned but kept his thoughts to himself on the way back, and continued to compress his wound. There was a lot they had to talk about, but his strength was reserved for the walk home, for the time being.

Image source.

[Taelian Edevane]

Asphodel

Lores
Baptism: Tendril: Controlling The Strength Of Tendrils
Medicine: Not Giving A Dehydrated Individual Too Much Water
Nightfall: Recognizing A Failed Initiation
Survival: Controlling Water Temperature With Baptism
Survival: Risk Assessment When Deicing To Help Others
Survival: Ambushes Are Common In The Badlands
Survival: Those Who Are Hurt Tend To Lash Out Regardless Of Your Intentions
Tactics: Restraining Someone You're Helping For Your Safety
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[PC] Arkash: A Wounded Rathor Of Unknown Species
[PC] Arkash: Very Nearly Dead When You Found Him
[PC] Arkash: Something Went Wrong With His Nightfall Initiation
[PC] Arkash: Very Much In Need Of Help
[PC] Arkash: Worth Helping

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 8 XP, 5 of which may be used for either Baptism or Nightfall

Arkash

Lores
Survival: Cool down to slow blood loss
Survival: As an ectotherm, you can bleed heat into the surface you're touching
Survival: Wrap your head to protect yourself from heatstroke
Survival: Remain a lizard to retain water
Survival: Don't let your drool go to waste
Survival: Compress your wounds
Survival: Rest to bring your heart rate down, and limit bleeding
Survival: Don't attempt to walk downhill when you're woozy from blood loss
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[PC] Asphodel: A human badlander with an odd name
[PC] Asphodel: Generous
[PC] Asphodel: Gave you water and helped you while you were dying
[PC] Asphodel: Nightfallen, as well as her possession of water magic
[PC] Asphodel: Helped your initiation with her Nightfallen magic
[PC] Asphodel: Took you home to help heal your wounds

Loot: N/A
Injuries: N/A

Points: 8 XP

Comments: Please let me know if you have any questions, comments or concerns.