Meissa bacchus

Nomads are said to know their way

The woods called to her, as they always had. They had been her first home, the first world that had held her for a time before spitting her back out into the world. It had been here, so close to so many centers of guilds, that she had made her debut into the world.

How strange... had she been found by others, perhaps she would have been swept away into another life entirely. Had those up north heard her mewling, she might have been trained as a scholar and grown upon the courts and forests of the College. Had she remained in Redwood - in Sussex - perhaps she would have been swept up into the belly of the world and would have been a whore or a thief by now.

A mercenary, perhaps.

Instead, somehow, she had made her way into the Army. She could not even remember the face of the man who had sent her, given her the demands to remove her from his lands. He had taunted her dreams so often yet she was unsure if she could place him.

Was he even one of the Thieves Guild, as she had feared as a youngling? Perhaps he had been a retired soldier or anything else, really, scaring her into a righteous path when he could see how easily she could have been swayed into that sort of life.

She was so caught up in her thoughts, her memories, that she did not hear the slow creak of wood, the splintering and finally breaking. The breaking, she heard, and she turned to see a tree that was growing larger. A beat later, she realized what was happening and twisted to turn, trying to run from the falling log.

All went dark.

Meissa was lucky.

Instead of the bulk of the log crushing her spine immediately, the upper branches of it protected her, leaving the woman pinned between the core of the tree and a branch, tucked out and broken. Blood found a path down from the top of her head, running down along her cheek and dripping onto the dusty earth below her unconscious form.

by an exact spot in the sky @Flynnigan

Cumbersome, rolling skies had been forecasted upon them today. Downy hedera, ivies — once honeyed with life deciding to paint themselves in a haggard, pale shade. They called out in a softly beckoning tone; pulling him forward into the atramentous and warm grasp of some much-needed slumber. He didn't want to awaken, no. Not today, not by or for anyone. He'd become quite comfortable with his life among the fading greenery. Having been blessed with the images of them sprouting from the moisture-sodden earth during spring, witnessing them dance in tiny specks of light during summer, all to watch as they withered into something more beautiful.

To him, at least.

He wished he could thank them, truly he did, such warmth had they bathed over him as he strayed into the beginning of the year. Though the male knew no exact meaning of time, he did know that the days were growing weaker and shorter by the second. Much like the bonds he intended on making with those around him… Hm, yes. The den he shared with his wee self, so very lavish, abounding with birth and charm... yet so very, very empty.

-

The crash came to him without the faintest notion of surprise, it was rather common in this neck of the wood for branches to curve and bend under their own greatness. The gentle bed his fawn-painted steps created upon the ruddy grasses, with every sweet blow his dampened nostrils created, he would paint a picture. One he knew very well, much like the startled rattle in the leaves or the tadpole-glinting streams surrounding his cozy cabin. Though the painting, this one, in particular, was misplaced.

It was bent out of shape, thrown to vultures, spit out by the fat cat, and clumped back together again almost as if to force the idea of a being. Though the more he looked — and by Geroge was he — even more so was he confused into curiosity. This was no ordinary stranger! "Oh... Well, my goodness, yew are not a frog, now are yew? And no, she indeed was not a frog, either. "But yew are stuck, aren't yew there, darling? Oh, poor sweet thing."

It didn't take but maybe a second for him to push those land-rugged muscles in the right places. Sliding upon his stomach, lifting upward with his shoulders to edge the lumber from her collapsed body. It fell to the forest floor in a slump, along with his optics as he examined the damage. "Tree did a numba one ya, didn't et? She was bleeding. Not much, but enough for him to smell, to see, to wonder. He assessed her cranium, nearing her side in a prone position. He hadn't any gauze or moss on hand, but as any canine... he had a tongue.

Meissa bacchus

Nomads are said to know their way

Darkness held her in its grasp, stifling fingers wrapped about her consciousness, pushing back attempts to break free. It felt like a heavy cloak draped over her mind, muffling the world beyond. Sleep was... so much kinder than waking, right now. It held no pain.

She found herself faintly aware of noises, of a voice. Of unending pressure, goring down on her, until suddenly it was lifted and air swept into her lungs like knives. Her lungs rattled with coughs, with gasps for sweet air.

But still the darkness held her leash, tugging her back into groggy confusion.

She shuddered, trying to free herself from the fog that clouded her vision. She saw the faintest of colours, of greenery amidst the red and tan. Pink eyes fluttered as slowly, sensations began to return, consciousness surfacing.

She felt hot breath upon her containing words that felt far away and she responded with a low groan, trying to lift herself up - and failing. As her ribs crushed into the soil again, the pain emerged from her spine. Ahh, fuck, she groaned, shifting to try to paw at her skull. She was faintly aware of another presence here but lord, her skull was throbbing.

by an exact spot in the sky

"Oh, yew're awake! And vulgar!" That was true for about two seconds until she crumbled back into a pile of her own self-pity and agony, which was a shame, he quite needed the company and her sudden submission to slumber had the young mister in a bit of a nervous fit, it did. To hear her hummingbird voice speak coherently, to fade back into an unknown grasp. His thoughts would wander, exactly how and why had she allowed herself to get hit by falling lumber?

Was she deaf, blind, dumb? Perhaps unsound? "Oh, bother," A bother it was, but the honeyed vibrato of his thickened Welsh melody made most of his emotions appear plush and kindly. Though mayhaps the scoff that felt his tongue would reach her tender ear; softly as he plucked the pink-eyed dahlia from the meadow in which she rooted. "I suppose I didn't 'ave much planned today, anyhow."

And so they walked. They sauntered until the light lingered dull upon the lilac sky. Until she was home, in his home, nestled upon an old wooden frame decorated in furs, in coats of wool and pelts of plumage. If she were to awake, buried in tattered surroundings, may restless eyes find comfort in her findings? Would she press upon his unmade bed, breathe in fragrances of chamomile, of cinnamon, of a cold holiday night? Would she inspect the shelves of tired, leatherbound books, of marble bowls streaming over with dried greenery?

Oh, he didn't know... but he had an inkling he'd soon find out.

But for now, he allowed her this kip, to share a bed not touched by any but himself. After all, it wasn't he who took a log to the dome. Meanwhile, standing adjacent to his cabin, he made her tea, scooping the ever-moving water from the streams that neighboured it. He wondered and oh how he wondered, what flavour she might pick.

the moon will swallow me whole

His voice split into her mind and faded just as quickly, darkness yet again taking her whole and nestling her into its embrace. She held it, this darkness, clung to it. It felt right.

She did not notice the change in position, not consciously. A low rumble of a moan left her lips as he hoisted her onto his back to carry her, but she did not wake. She didn't even wake when he placed her upon his bed, furs and pelts all about her.

It was only later that she awoke, alone in an unfamiliar place.

Light filtered in between hooded lashes, moments stretching out in the peace. There was the quietest of croaking in the near distance along with the sound of cricket love songs. She lifted her head gingerly, mind slowly picking pieces of her surroundings and putting them together. Her eyes drifted over the shelves, the varieties of books - books! - and ancient bowls of herbs. The odors around her were unfamiliar yet strangely comforting. As she turned, she felt the stinging wetness upon her scalp and winced.

That pain brought her to reality.

She found herself at once turning, sniffing at her own body. Ensuring nothing was out of place, beyond the pain in her scalp. She checked herself over, noting her aching shoulders but uttering a gentle noise of relief that the pain did not sink lower. This place smelled heavily of a stranger and so too did she. It was with continued relief that she understood that it was her underbelly that smelled most strongly of the stranger whose... bed she was upon?

She tried to rise only to sink back with a hiss of dizzying pain. Her lips wet as she washed her tongue over them, startled by her inability to rise and run. After a few failed attempts to speak, she managed to utter out a simple, Where... am I?

It was the deliquesce of clouds, the creamy peach melt of sunlight that dripped upon the redwood firs and painted across the boundless streams of flowing water — they beckoned him home. He had no sure way of telling how long he'd been away. Be it minutes, hours, though thankfully his mind wasn't unwound enough to believe days. Time had never been consistently on his side; optical illusions of memories, eyes squinting upward to measure how many moments of sunlight he, well, he supposed now they, had left.

If only he had more time, more time... more...

"Oh, hello dere, aren't we tha most bonny lass aye ever seen!" More self-awareness on how to properly introduce himself. "And 'ere I thought yew were gonna be out for longer, must 'ave a 'ard 'ead." His half-insult poured a scolding visage to his lips, quickly marching forth to place a crackled marble cup on a little splintered table that decorated the den of his home.

The water was steaming, liking due to the hot rocks he had sitting outside under the now dwindling sky. Though, mostly his cheeks; flashing an honest pink in embarrassment. A diversion, a diversion! "O-Oh! Here, I made yew some tea! Or uh... Some... 'Ot wa'der, yew can pick tha flavour!" He waltzed in, curly locks bouncing in youth before he placed the cup upon the nightstand by his loft.

"I'm Flynnigan, Doctor Flynnigan! Um, yew can call meh Flynn. Who might yew be? Other than possibly concussed. He'd snort, lightly pressing a paw to her head before scrambling back to get some cloth.

the moon will swallow me whole

A man appeared, soft creams and dusty tans wrapping about a face filled with some sort of concern. She thought. Instantly, the woman's face turned to focus on his, though it all felt a bit blurry and out of focus. She blinked hard to try to clear her eyes but it only made her feel woozier. What was he, some sort of blurry angel?

She gave a soft cough, unsure if it was in reaction to her dry throat or to ready to speak words that never made it out.

She thought he was complimenting her, but then again he also seemed to be insulting her. His accent was strange, unfamiliar until she remembered a brush with a Highlander she'd had once early in her training. There really weren't all that many this far south, especially not in the Imperial Army. Maybe a mix of insults and compliments was just a thing they did in the Highlands.

Her eyes moved to the motion of him setting a strangely shaped and coloured shell down before her. Slight steam seemed to rise from it and she looked back at him just in time to see him struggling for a diversion. A blink, another. He seemed like a lost child and she tried to clear her head enough to inspect him.

The browns of his shoulders were draped across with a white streak, as if a large stoat lay draped across his shoulders. He was very tall and finely shaped with fur that seemed to curl slightly under the dripping of sunlight. Perhaps he was simply unkempt, perhaps it was something else. Doctor Flynnigan, she repeated, blinking and going cross eyed as his paw rested upon her forehead and then pulled away.

She shook her head, feeling instant regret at doing that as nausea rolled within her. Tea? she inquired, looking over at the cup before looking back at him. There was a suspicion in her, despite his genuine appearance and disposition. And - oh! Introductions. Captain Meissa Bacchus, her tongue lapped over her lips, realizing that they were rather dry and she was rather thirsty. I think.

Her eyes turned back to the tea, a note of longing in her pink gaze.

"Ah, a Captain of the Imperial Army? So charmed tew meet yew." She spoke on slurred words, as if her nights might of been spent in the Tavern near her homestead rather than an unfortunate woman stuck by a falling limb; but he was no squabbling man... "Odd tew find yew out here so late, patrolling for escapees?" ...but there was a slight... Judgmental tension tightening along his brow. In some instances the male found himself teddering the balance between a mere bystander and a gent that held Jacobite values. Though maybe, maybe it by blood.

As any doctor, it was best to keep personal opinions under lock and key if they weren't relevant matters; regardless, now he knew more about (or at least he'd suspected) the perplexed lass that lay bloodied and bruised upon his sheets than she about him. "For yew'r own sake I hope not, I hear the Army can be a rather... Cruel location..." He stood, a delicate cloth of warm water wrapped around an outstretched paw. It was coated in something fragrant, something he knew to be the grounds of poppyseed. "Lucky for yew, they don't know of this place, not tew my knowledge at least! Now, 'old still, please." Dabbing it gently, pressing each digit on her lobe with a warm, distant smile. He oftentimes got lost in his healing, but he'd never been disappointed in his work.

She would be fine, a bit dazed, but fine. He couldn't be sure exactly how long she'd be this way, but he doubted she'd be heading out now with the sun finally set in the sky.

He'd hardly remembered her one-word question until the steam from his mug caught his gaze, bringing it to her mouth in a kind gesture. "Tea, it's good for yew'r health, I 'aven't put anything in et but a bit of honey and mint, yew can add whatever yew like, or drink it plain." He spoke as if she even knew the first thing about tea making.

the moon will swallow me whole

The woman coughed, trying to clear her throat and her mind at the same moment. It wasn't the most successful, but hey, she was trying. She heard the tension in the way he spoke and glanced at him, a brow raised slightly as she blinked.

No, she said, swallowed, and tried again. Walking home, thinking, didn't hear the tree. Until, of course, it was almost too late. Had she not heard it at all, she would have been crushed by its core instead of caught in its branches.

It would have been the end of the solitary Captain.

Honestly, she'd never really paid too much mind to the prisons. They depressed her, so she avoided them whenever she could. The woman had no claims to any particular political parties, instead she tried to focus on her job.

It was all she had.

At his criticism of the Army she gave a soft laugh and a shake of her head that sent her grimacing. It's... a job. She wasn't one of those diehard military fanboys touting about their ranks and insignia, but he'd offered his own title so she figured she'd better do the same. Tit for tat and all that.

As he came to her and began to check on her skull, she looked about with her eyes alone. She appraised the decorated walls, wondering where he had found such things. It's beautiful, she offered approvingly, slowly regaining her speech faculties. You've clearly put a lot of effort in. She looked back at him, trying a smile. It felt foreign on her lips, but she meant it.

So many books... she whispered, eyes turning to transfix on his collection. She wanted to move, to explore the titles and be enraptured in the words. Were they documentary types, full of information about medicine and anatomy? Were they fiction, stories she could imagine herself in where wolves fought villains and fell in love? A soft sigh left her lips, eyes still resting upon the leathery bindings.

Meissa was drawn away from the books by his offer of tea. Oh. Thank you, she leaned carefully to sniff at the cup, then at the spices nearby.

What would you recommend?

"Walkin'... 'ome? Figured yew might 'ave wanted tew avoid the bind in the road, the Redwood t'is time of year es a bit spotty." The tapping of his tongue aginst the roof of his muzzle told a story on its own; one where he hadn't held it back. One where he'd asked question upon ponder, thrown her mind around in pointless loops as he prodded her scattered brain to figure out exactly what had happened before he found her, aloof and unconscious. Was he being irrational? Prehaps, perhaps... But this hadn't been his first visit with the likes of military folk.

Or Mainlanders, if he was thinking precisely.

The boyish Botanist was all-too-slowly realising who he'd let stow away in his home, and while his mind did wander on the possible consequences still he found himself applying ointment to her wound, covering it snug with a bit of fabric. He allowed himself to sigh out the worry, broad shoulders once lifted with anxiety began to lower into their natural shape. He now appeared as long-limbed as the day he'd entered manhood, a limber body fit with muscle hidden rather poorly under an alarming amount of sandstone baby curls and flyaways. To put it lightly: a tall, rugged mess.

He highly doubted she cared, after all, he was assisting her, and she now appeared to be giving away murmured compliments. "Oh... Why thank yew, et took a bit of my... Less than honorable skills tew obtain it all" Snorting, as if he were truly a thief; though he was partially certain he'd taken that end table from the dining hall. "Most of what yew see was already 'ere, I merely dusted over the place, added a bit of my own flare." Pointing to the pelts along her stomach, the flowers, herbs, skulls, and whatnot... And the books. He'd taken much more for his little home, but she seemed rather transfixed on his novels.

"'andwritten documents. My works, mostly. Others were thrown out by the castle, others sold tew me by peddlers. Sadly, now was not the time for reading, but for resting, and he made that clear by loudly placing a bit of herb on the table. "With the warmer weather, I suggest honeyed peach. Might 'elp with that cough, tew."