From Attuned to Ascended to Ancient, Kiada Njovu-Reyes has been reborn several times throughout her short life, but her fighting spirit has never once been diminished. With beauty, grace and a quick wit, Kiada is the whole package wrapped in an infectious smile. Recent endeavours have found her in the heart of the Hollowed Grounds, aiding the region and bettering it for her new Ancient kin, and whatever she does next, we know it's sure to pack a punch.
Congratulations, Kiada!
Credits
Court of the Fallen was created in October of 2018 by Odd, Honey, and Crooked.
Skinning and hosting by the epically talented Kaons, and functionality fanciness by the coding magic of Neowulf. If you ever see either of them around, make sure to show them some love!
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
It isn't the first time Isla has had to open the clinic after hours, and it certainly won't be the last.
Granted, she isn't usually called from her apartment under threat of setting everything on fire, and whilst she's never met the Maverick in person, she recognises him well enough. She also recognises the unconscious figure with him. And so the clinic opens.
The healing water Astaroth had been able to consume is a large part of why he isn't in worse shape, she thinks, but the wounds on his collarbone and arm aren't healed entirely, and need stitching. Having used some more of the healing water topically, she's been able to close the lacerations so they aren't quite so striking or deep, and is more than happy to be left to work when Danta announces that he's going a bar to drink away the evening.
And it is evening by the time the Remedy is finished, stars beginning to twinkle overhead outside, Isla washing her hands and starting to put away her tools. They'd moved Asta to the bed in the consultation room out back, and while he hadn't awoken in all the time she's been working, she's already preparing a concoction of very strong pain medication, knowing better than to expect anything calm or measured when he does come to.
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
He’s out. Unaware of where he’s ended up or what happened at the end of the transport. Or even the fact that Danta had dropped him off with Isla and gone for a well deserved drink. None of it matters, though, as his eyes slowly begin to blink open, nothing registering except for the fact that he’s very sore, his mouth is dry, and he thinks it’s the worst dream he’s ever experienced, even with the centuries he’d been asleep. He’d never felt this bad.
Shifting a bit to sit up, its with a wince that he settles immediately, his arm bandaged and throbbing in pain along with his collarbone, Astaroth notices that he’s in a clinic – a familiar one at that – and with it he shakes a little, trembling from the soreness and the pain, before he settles back and presses his horned head into the pillow, his unharmed hand, still caked with a fair amount of dried blood, rubs at his temple with a heavy sigh, eyes shut tight as he tries to compartmentalize the pain.
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
"I imagine you probably feel like that cart ran you over." Isla's voice is soft and gentle as she notices him stir, and she's already approaching the bed in case he tries to sit up (or get up, or walk off - it's not unheard of). Only when he settles does she withdraw again, fetching a glass of water as well as the tonic she's prepared. "Welcome back to the land of the living, by the way," she continues, offering him some of the water and fully prepared to help sit him up if he needs.
"You're in my clinic in Haulani," Isla explains - he might not need it, but just in case. "Danta brought you in after you were hurt out in the Oerwoud. He's gone down to one of the bars along the port - he told me to tell you he'd see you tomorrow. The sun set about two hours ago now."
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
“Yes.” Astaroth says immediately – because holy shit he does feel like he’s been ran over by something heavy – even if the point of pain was in two particular places that he would suggest it might feel more pointed. It doesn’t, though, because the rest of him is just as exhausted, the stitches on his collarbone and arm are sore and painful, and he hates to admit that it does as much as it does.
He's silent as he listens and she arrives at his side, dark gaze slipping up to her and drifting to the water, adjusting just enough to take it and take a sip from his uninjured hand holding the water. Once he’s downed about half of it does he give it back. “Thank you, Isla, darling.” He hums quietly, throat hoarse from blacking out and being so dry. He hasn’t really looked to see what the damage was, but he can feel it clear as day enough to look at Isla and tilt his head a little into the pillow. “I was not intending to prove you right about injuries when we met next, here.” He admits, trying for a bit of a joke that falls flat, as does the traditional smile that graces his face – too flat and dull in all the proper places.
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
"No need to thank me - it's what I'm here for." Isla says with a soft smile, taking back the glass of water once he's finished and moving instead to prepare the syringe to inject some of the medicine she's been getting ready. "I wasn't intending for you to prove me right either," she agrees, laughing quietly. "At least you did get here, though. I'm glad you found someone with that fountain water."
She doesn't need to belabour the point, but it would have been very touch and go were it not for their stroke of luck. Moving back to his side, it's unfortunately his good arm she needs to inject, Isla taking a moment to ensure she cleans away the dried blood. "This will help you to feel better," she assures Asta, "but don't be surprised if you end up drifting in and out again. It's the good stuff."
Tipping him a wink, she smoothly injects the solution before withdrawing the syringe again, pressing a small dressing against his arm. "I'm so sorry, by the way - we could take off your coat, but I had to cut your shirt away."
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
He’d hoped to make her not feel like the only thing he knows her for is her healing. So far, though, he hasn’t been doing a great job at it. “I am too.” He says at the mention of finding someone with fountain water – trying to take a deep breath to sigh it out with relief, only to feel the soreness and scratchiness of the stitches along his collarbone.
Dark eyes track her as she moves to his side, reaching for his good arm that he offers with a surprising amount of ease, snorting softly as to not jostle the stitches at her jest. “Your bedside manners are impeccable.” He compliments, half limp as she takes his arm and the injection slips in without so much of a wince from the butcher.
No, instead, his gaze slips away from her to stare down at the edge of the bed, waiting for it to do something as he thinks about the shirt. “I am sure I can get more.” And he fully intends to, at least while his mind is still working at the sleepy function it had begun with. It doesn’t last, though, because the drugs start to kick in and a sense of unease swells in his gut and his jaw tightens a little, head tilting into the pillow to let his dark gaze lift to her.
“I had an overreaction.” Astaroth hums, as if it wasn’t obvious. “I used to… I was much stronger before. I could use the bloodbane without all of this..” Gesturing limply with the hand she’d injected, he sighs and tears his gaze away. “Fuck.”
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
"I have had a great deal of practice," Isla quips back with a warm smile, checking the dressing on his arm before removing it, content that her injection hasn't caused him to bleed too much. "It does help when my patient is as polite and cooperative as you are." It probably goes without saying that Isla's bedside manner can become much worse when necessary. For Astaroth, though, it certainly isn't the case.
Withdrawing to put everything away, by the time she returns to his side it's with a bowl of hot water and cloth to start cleaning away the dried blood. Around them, too, orbs of firelight hover and flicker with her magic, suffusing the room with a warmth that would likely be uncomfortable for anyone who wasn't an Ancient. "You had a learning opportunity," she corrects gently, starting to clean the blood from his arm.
"I don't know how much you know about Ascended, but I used to have a lot more tricks up my sleeve when I was one," she adds quietly. "The ability to heal other Ascended with a touch, scalpel blades in the tip of a finger..." She sighs almost lamentingly. "For all I gained becoming an Ancient, I did feel quite useless for a while, compared to the way I was. But the knowledge is still there."
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
Lips quirk into a small twitch of a smile at Isla’s commentary of polite patients and bedside manner. Honestly, growing up as he had, his first experience with any true medics and healers had been amongst the Climb and when he’d fit into varying societies to try and become the gentleman he s today, so while it had been a relatively new experience he hadn’t ever sat there with the assumption he’d get nowhere if he was in pain and being an asshole to the person helping him.
So he’s always been tempered, offering trust to those with the capabilities that he does not have, for the benefit of bringing him back to his tall, towering, and often menacing self.
Clinging to the warmth she offers while she cleans away the blood, he’s silent as he listens and the drugs start to take more of a hold — the soreness vanishing in the face of warmth and airiness. He feels light, all of a sudden, and he watches the bobbing lights as he sinks into the sensation and her dutiful work wiping away the blood. “That sounds useful.” He comments about her scalpel fingers, before his head twists to look at her and his arm as the red is wiped away.
“There was a big… awful monster made of too many creatures and things that was heading this way and we couldn’t… Kill it.” He starts to say, tongue feeling heavier and drawing more of his accent out. “We failed and I could only remember what would happen when I’d fail back at the Climb, so I ran.” Like a coward with no hold on himself or his emotions.
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
"It was useful," Isla agrees softly, soaking her cloth and turning the water pink, before working on a stubborn bit of dried blood in the crook of Asta's arm. "But my point is that I never forgot how to do surgery, or use a scalpel, or make medicines, even if I couldn't do the things I used to do. It's the same for you - all that knowledge is still there, you just need to be a little more gentle with yourself for now." Having seen the scars that map the butcher's body, though, she doubts that gentle lives in his vocabulary, at least when it comes to his own wellbeing.
News about the monster both is and isn't a surprise, Isla nodding gently. "Danta said as much. I put word out," she says, though whether it will reach anyone in time is questionable. As he continues, though, and Isla moves to clean off his neck, she can't help but furrow her brow. "What would happen?" she asks. "If you want to talk about it, of course. If you don't, feel free to just doze off."
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
She makes quite a valid point, even if he’d rather bash his head against a wall waiting uselessly, but it does little good to mention that train of thought while the drugs start to work and he can’t entirely feel the way she scrubs at the blood in his arm that doesn’t want to leave. “You’re right.” He hums, allowing her the easy win when it comes down to agreeing or explaining his capabilities in both being patient and incredibly impatient.
He offers more information about the Climb instead, head tilting despite the numb sensation as she starts to work at his neck, silent for a few moments longer as if debating whether he did want to talk about it. Danta already knew, had witnessed it time and time again, but the rest of them? They had no idea. Obviously his own suffering hadn’t been to the extent of the Maverick’s, and with that thought he’d kept his own tight lipped as if claiming he had nothing to complain about, when the drugs seem to make him think he can get away with feeling how he does about it.
“Punishment.” He starts to say, jaw working briefly before he takes a slow and deep inhale, blinking a few times slowly before he continues. “I would get locked in my room and all of my trinkets and things taken from me until I learned what lesson was trying to be taught.”
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
Happy to take the win, whether or not it's given only because Asta is too high and numb to put up a fight, Isla falls quiet for a few moments to concentrate on cleaning him up. She doesn't mind if he wants to simply stop responding, at least whilst she's focused on this particular task - he's just woken up after being out cold while she stitched his shoulder and arm, after all.
Pausing to change the water and collect a new clean cloth, her brows furrow into a frown as his accented voice hits the air again, Isla shaking her head. "It sounded like a brutal place," she mutters. "I'm sorry you were treated that way." Sitting beside him again, she carefully starts to clean the blood away from his face. "I don't know if anyone would say you failed out there, though. You couldn't have known that thing was there, or what it was capable of."
Unsure if that line of thought would make much of a difference, once she's cleaned as much blood off as she can, the Remedy sits back, satisifed. "Rest assured, no one will be locking you anywhere or taking any of your things whilst you're here. Though I do recommend you stay put, given the potency of the medicine I gave you."
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
Snorting lightly despite there being absolutely no humor in it whatsoever, Astaroth blinks numbly over at Isla as she apologizes, brows pinching slightly before he gets his far too heavy tongue to work again, accented tone shifting into something heavier. “I was given many freedoms.” Despite it all, but isn’t that just a Stockholm syndrome case? Yes, it was awful, but look at all the cool things I got to do, so is it truly as bad?
Letting her words fall over him in as soothing of a way as he can allow for it, he blinks away from her as she cleans the blood from his face and sits back satisfied, before his dark gaze finds her again, watching as she offers her own doctor’s orders, and he’s still stuck on the idea of wondering how deep he’d have to go to cut out the gut instinct he reverts to. A thought that occurs when it comes to the crows, too, now that he thinks about it.
But he’s getting off track and it’s with a small twist of his lips that he tries to offer her a smile. “Is there any way to speed up the process of believing people when they say exactly that?” He asks, because Danta had said much of the same, and Astaroth still, somehow, feels as though the other shoe will drop at any second.
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
to share the space with simple living things, infinitely suffering
"A gilded cage is still a cage," Isla says with a gentle shrug of her shoulders, smiling softly to him. Now that he's cleaned and stitched and out of pain, the Remedy is content to let him rest here in the clinic, and she moves away to put away the rest of her equipment and to empty the bowl of water. Glancing back at the butcher as he speaks again, she can only wrinkle her nose in apology, waiting until everything is back in its rightful place before she returns to his bedside.
"Unfortunately no, I don't think so," she says. "I think it's one of those things where you just have to experience the bad thing not happening enough that it becomes the norm." But the mind, alas, isn't Isla's expertise, so perhaps she isn't the best person to ask about it. She can heal his body though, at least, moving to draw the blankets over him a little more.
"I've got a lot of paperwork to get through," she lies says, "so I'll be around if you need me. Can I get you anything else for now, though?"
fighting off like all creation, the absence of itself
A cage he feels as if he doesn’t have a huge right to complain about, given that there were others he knows that had it so much worse than he did. But, content to agree to disagree, Astaroth lets the drugs continue to dull his senses, numb his mind, and his words end up being far less eloquent as the minutes span on – a reversion, of sorts, back to the less proper tones that Whitebrim harbored.
“Mm, unfortunate.” Astaroth says despite realizing it was likely for the best – there was nothing to do other than see what happened, and if he expected the worst and received anything above it? Then obviously it was leagues better than what could have happened. So, the butcher settles into the comfortable nothingness that the drugs provide, watching Isla and not quite seeing her as she finishes cleaning up and returns to draw the blankets on over him.
He starts to shake his head, going about as far as one little shake before setting. “I’m okay. Thanks, though.” It’s a rougher accent than before, none of the poetics, a flash into a previous life he’d tried so desperately to rid himself of. It doesn’t take him too long before the drugs lull him to sleep, either, watching as Isla vanishes into the clinic and finishes up her paperwork, and the butcher promptly passes out.
- FIN <333
Astaroth
// and if the morning light sets in, we've cheated fate again //
