Alakzyr: Magi Intervention

[12:29:26] There was a moan...
Consciousness was being reclaimed. The man's body was bound to the ground by earthen cuffs, restraining him at the wrists. Ensnared there by a magi child, dragging him into the village not too long ago, he laid there-- Still waiting freedom from any whom would badger him a passing glance.

Though, as he'd saw at Sunflower village, no one cared for a powerless individual. He was no titan, nor magi of worthy cause... Just a human; a sick one, no less. What made a difference here?
By now, the symptoms of his sickness was getting worse.

The skin began to irradiate a stench that transcended the dried blood, sweat and pus across his his apparel. Blood had bled itself well over his face to leave several patches of scabs, with with septic bacteria ebbing away at the flesh beneath the surface, these scab patches extended across his body to provide one with the illusion of an animated corpse.

His wheezing... His suffering... The neglect was evident.
It was all a desperate cry for help, even if his mind was far too gone.
(Alakzyr)

[13:47:56] Fellow members of the ungifted had come to one's aid...
To the fallen, now reduced to a cadaverous shell that clung to the bare tethers of life, came several worried citizens, passing by. Some, offered water to a restrained man's dried and gaping mouth. He coughed, he choked and spat... But ultimately had access to fresh drink.

Others, took to their pickaxes to mine out the earthen cuffs that restrained him... And with the might of many men and woman, a sickly soul was finally liberated of the magi-crafted restraint.
If there could ever be a memory that stained his mind even to this day, it'd be this...

One, of fear for the common magi's power.
It could be abused... It could be malicious against the powerless common man.
To the common humanity, one could only hope and pray that mercy would come from these harbingers of power.
They were the minority, but truly overwhelming, the closest to deities that the land had in abundance waging all power over the lives of non-magi abroad.

Now, relinquished... His wrists were raw... Bloodied once more, albeit given the time and infection that had been allowed to take its course, it had evolved to become something much worse: Necrosis. His body was dying before he, himself...
The flesh was blackening in patches from head to toe, yet even so... He was carried off, to the infirmary where his ailment was likely to be examined and his improved and illegal imprisonment investigated.
(Alakzyr)
[14:10:08] Operations...
Constant works... But medicine was far too late to save him now. The extents of the non-magus grade...
Of the lackluster magus grade...
It wasn't enough... He had transcended to a doomed state, damned to rot away at the rate he was going.

At best, they were able to hydrate him and send him on his way...
Though, as it was now... He was a mere husk of what he was.
Sunflower Village did not save him.
Cinderfall would not badger themselves with him...
And now, he was allowed to wander once more.

What little remained of his mind felt drifted away, alongside the rest of his facade. Rotting patches of his pale skin were clearly visible when brought to the glint of light across the corridors for Trystle cavern exits. The occasional hole in the ceiling unveiling sunlight provided a gleaming silhuoette for the bloodied, sweat and pus-bound individual.

Their clothing had begun to join in the rot across their body, and the warning of their approach, transcended the caves with the echos of their sickly coughs and sneezes.

The splatter of blood took a light sanguineous mist, and the pungent scent of their deteriorated form? It long preceeded them...
Bloodshot eyes fell upon the first moving entity they saw traveling in their general direction... and with the sound of their approach...
With the scent of them, wafting through the air...
The mouth was forced to water... The eyes, tearing up of blood.

Hunger was rampant, and words were lost... Merely an agonized moan was voiced out for them... If they'd ever answer him.
(Alakzyr)
[14:19:31] With the departure of his daughter, Quazla was left to return to his own matters. His own matters being waiting in his village alone. Given how lackluster that was, the druid decided upon once more making the journey to Cinderfall to see if there was possibly anything of interesting going on there.

The Sarradian man's sandals clicked lightly against the rock floor as he traveled, his single hand held before him, the golden glow of the lifestream emanating from it. In truth, it was meant to act as something of a torch. A bit of a misuse of such an ability, but the heightened senses that came with it proved to be useful when traveling through such a dangerous place as the caverns.

Long before he truly came across Alakzyr, he could hear the pain, the crying out of his soul amidst the darkness. Not the melody of depravity, like an undead might give, but of simple pain. So when the man finally came into sight, he was not frightened.

Mumbled words were made apparent to Quazla through the gift of empathy. Stepping towards the man, the glowing hand was raised forward to set upon his shoulder, unless he was swatted away. The druid was a highly proficient healer, as the lifestream itself aided him in sending its essence into Alakzyr.
(Quazla Mabon)
[14:28:54] One was approached by... A man? Yes, the very same one he could smell on the way here... But why now? Why here? It felt so far overdue... It should've happened so long ago. Then again, was it any of this man's fault? Did it matter?
They approached, extending a glowing hand-- To heal? To rid him of his affliction?

The hand was... Eyed... Followed by his hues. He didn't irk... at least, he didn't want to... Or so he thought.
It was like a voice taunting him within the depths of his mind, or was it what invaded him. It spoke nothing of coherence, but demanded of him-- To percieve of what he thought to benevolent to be...

Opportunity?
The smell of his flesh was... So delectable. As though the wafting arouma of prepared meal teasing the deprived and tormented. How could it be? This, was a man's flesh. Such, was sin...
Yet, the mouth watered... And eyes dilated...
It felt natural to let what urges twisted and churned at his mind to follow through.

Would this man, forgive him? Understand him?.... Could he forgive himself?
Why couldn't the words escape his lips.

Lips parted to unveil strings of mucus and blood betwixt teeth, shifted to attempt fitting around what was moved for him for a sharp clamp: A bite, from a non-magi infected with ailment likely moot to a magi's immunity system.
He wanted to be saved... To be healed...
But he wanted to sate this hunger, even more...
(Alakzyr)
[14:33:10] He felt the undeniable hunger of this man. The wing upon his shoulder bat itself as Quazla reached his hand forward, two sets of eyes watching the man's reactions. And when it came clear that hunger would win, the other pair acted.

From his wrist, a slim vine protruded from the skin before thickening and shooting itself into the man's mouth, offering an alternative to be clamped upon. If managed, it forcefully kept itself between his teeth to be chewed upon. Meanwhile, the hand it was linked to continued to reach forward to rest upon his shoulder in order to heal him.

There was no fear, not when he had done so little as of late.
(Quazla Mabon)
[14:45:07] The vine was viciously gnawed into with unrelenting strain, twisting, prying... But no blood...
The familiar taste was denied to him. Bloodshot eyes scrolled down for what his teeth sunk into to realize...
This was no hand. No, this was a magical conjuration at the volition of a magi.

The expansion of the vine kept his jaws locked, and thus all one could commit to, is oversalivation at the mouth. The diseased mucus and blood stained at what he clamped into, and teeth sought to make the slightest incision. It was not the bidding of himself, but what lied inside. It felt only natural to reach up, disorientated and desperate for a taste. Hands slapped at whatever they could take grasp of, their ruined stature oozing what bloodied excretions eased from them.

Though, it felt of little use...
At the very least, one could take a closer gander at what he was encountering...
The attacking man was suffering of advancing infection, having lasted months-- It had gone beyond simple ailment, afflicting, rotting and twisting the remnants of the mind.

The physical body had begun to deteriorate. The left leg in particular was wrapped in a clearly over-tightened bandage. Swelling around it and pus bleeding from the wounds beneath it stained it an off-amber and black. It had begun to whittle to the point of no return, contracting necrotic symptoms. If such sickness could be purged, the body would never see regeneration without severe magical intervention into his full being.

Breathing hissed through his teeth as his struggle proved more forceful, lacking much reverence to his own well-being, daring to taunt the threshold of his very own jaw. The pain shown across the victim's face... Yet, they could never voice it.
(Alakzyr)
[14:52:48] With the vine holding the man's jaw away, hands came up to take their place. But this man had quite a bit of plantlife at his disposal. From the wing of flora upon his shoulder, two slim vines suddenly grew outward before shooting toward either hand in order to wrap about the wrists and pull them away.

Finally, Quazla could rest his sole hand upon Alakzyr's shoulder. The golden aura of the lifestream which covered his hand grew to envelop the man's shoulder now, sending through it the very energies of fate. It was comforting, numbing pain, yet most of all it began to work at healing him. His body was pushed to its limits in healing, an effect working at a rate much higher than any sort of normal holy magic.

Brown eyes truly scanned the man now, scrutinizing his wounds. It was a disgusting state Alakzyr found himself in, one that rendered him looking more like the work of a novice necromancer than a real human. Quazla held his breath as he worked, returning his gaze to stare straight into his eyes in order to look away from the injuries as his hand remained clenched onto his shoulder.
(Quazla Mabon)
[15:05:36] Teeth could not tear the mouth-bound vine, and soon after, more came to one's volition. It seemed natural that a magi would be capable of unveiling a full advantage over a non-magi like this. However, if not mere human will, whatever acted in Alakzyr's place fought strong... Even to the point of pushing one's limits beyond what they were meant for.

Raw strength was out of the question... But the mind was too far gone to think clearly... To strategize. No.
This was not what was exhibited... And as one strived to heal one, to revitalize the very parts of the body was were withered away, the body strained... Irked...
The arms pried at their wrist-bound restraints.

They twisted...
They tugged...
They clenched...
The endeavor invoked pain, not at Quazla's dispense but Alakzyr, finally given voice in the form of his agonized scream of desperation. All one wished for... Was liberation from this pain...
But instead, they'd hear only the crude answer of cackling...

They filled whatever silence would've taken place without their vocalizations: The crack of brittle bones...
An awkward thrust snapped at the radius in one of his arms, and with continued strain came the percussive applause of the bones that'd follow. The tears of blood streamed down his cheeks, all in the undertone of this siren's scream.

The arm sunk down, shattering at the wrist by forcing against a superior magi's strength to slip free. Blood splattered in all direction to stain vines, apparel and flesh alike. The moment a limp appendage fell free, it'd flail to swat at what restrained his mouth-- all else carted off was unconsciously deflected in the endeavor.

All that mattered, was that the flesh or blood of another was tasted... Or that the mind fell to the abyss of unconsciousness once more.
Clearly, he was lost in the moment, lost in the months of deprivation and agony.
(Alakzyr)


((OOC Note: Quazla's player had to depart mid-RP, and thus the remainder of the RP had to be blackscreened and briefly summarized/referred to in future RPs.))

[15:21:48] An encounter with Quazla in one's disorientated wander away from Cinderfall resulted in himself being knocked unconscious, brought back by the druid himself and... Changed? At the very least, they no longer appeared to be rotting away!

The once necrotic vessel was, repaired! Fixed. Recovered... It was, at the very least, a cosmetic change considering what still resided in his system. The messings of pus were... Gone...
Bandages, swelling... Pains and visible signs of damage undone by the works of the lifestream healing his very damaged being.

He was... Cured?!
He could stand...
He could operate...
Perhaps now, he could live a normal life once more.

It took a few days, but alas... He'd emerge from the infirmary once more; a normal man, rather than the seemingly conjured practice of a novice necromancer.
(Alakzyr)
[15:45:42] [Healing scene with Quazla was blackscreened/generalized with last post]

It felt like... A dream come true.
The physical pain... Gone! At long last, healed to be free of his agony.
The mind felt able, again. To process, to think... He felt like a whole person once more... With something... Extra.
He couldn't put a finger on it, but he knew it was there. The sensation, the feeling ebbing inside...

It never left... That much, was never spared of him.

He didn't have to acknowledge it. He didn't want to... It terrified him that it clawed over the mind. He may've been healed, but its clutch at him had never been stronger. It no longer combed over a degenerated mind, but swayed at a redeveloped one. The urges... The wafting scents... They were all still there.

It wasn't outright and blatant as it was prior, but rather... Silent...
Incognito... Suggesting decisions subconsciously to lead him through it flawlessly. He took to his seemingly aimless wander, without destination... For the southern caverns, leaving Cinderfall for a third time, but not under the crippling clutches of a parasite... or so he wanted himself to believe.
(Alakzyr)