EVIE
Evie had come late to the festival, had only intended to say hello to a few familiar faces, maybe get a few goodies from the vendors before heading home satisfied with the level of socialization she'd chosen. Instead, as she ventures closer to the Fields, her ears are assaulted with screams and the sound of shattering ice. Her feet pick up speed, going from an indolent meander to a sprint within moments, hair like a streak of fire behind her. Everywhere she looks people are running, limping, helping each other or in worse cases shoving one another aside in search of freedom. But Evie - a Natural, a healer, a nobody - cannot run away. She runs straight into the maelstrom, towards the wounded and the wreckage, and as she runs - lungs burning, legs eating up earth, magic leaping to her hands - a voice screams out from the dead and dying.
A voice she would know and parse even in her sleep. Her direction is immediately corrected, running for Amalia's voice like a beacon in a dark, starless night. Her throat burns with exertion as she skids in the mud and ice, arriving on the scene in a flurry. Wessex is compressing hard on Remi's chest, a small dark form of a child below him - still, too still, and Evie can tell from a glance that it's too late - as Amalia kneels nearby. The grief is pushed away, and the apothecarist moves towards Wessex with an extended hand. "Stand back, let me try and heal whatever's left." There's no time to reconsider, to doubt, to fear her own outing. Her magic reaches out, probing at Remi like curious tendrils, but she finds nothing major left to heal. Pools what she can, helps the last little tidbits along, and then hefts her arms beneath Remi's to try and hoist him up. "There's no more trauma, we need to clear the field. Help me move him." Her voice is whip-sharp, no time for doubt or hesitation. Her eyes go to Amalia, heart shattering with the desire to help, to heal, to hold her sister tight and shield her from this agony. But she can't, not right now. "Can you carry him on your back transformed?" Aoife, Gods guide her, was small enough for one of the women to carry alone or together.
Only once the man and his daughter are safe and clear will Evie turn her attention to the other wounded.
A voice she would know and parse even in her sleep. Her direction is immediately corrected, running for Amalia's voice like a beacon in a dark, starless night. Her throat burns with exertion as she skids in the mud and ice, arriving on the scene in a flurry. Wessex is compressing hard on Remi's chest, a small dark form of a child below him - still, too still, and Evie can tell from a glance that it's too late - as Amalia kneels nearby. The grief is pushed away, and the apothecarist moves towards Wessex with an extended hand. "Stand back, let me try and heal whatever's left." There's no time to reconsider, to doubt, to fear her own outing. Her magic reaches out, probing at Remi like curious tendrils, but she finds nothing major left to heal. Pools what she can, helps the last little tidbits along, and then hefts her arms beneath Remi's to try and hoist him up. "There's no more trauma, we need to clear the field. Help me move him." Her voice is whip-sharp, no time for doubt or hesitation. Her eyes go to Amalia, heart shattering with the desire to help, to heal, to hold her sister tight and shield her from this agony. But she can't, not right now. "Can you carry him on your back transformed?" Aoife, Gods guide her, was small enough for one of the women to carry alone or together.
Only once the man and his daughter are safe and clear will Evie turn her attention to the other wounded.
Don't look up, just let them think
There's no place else you'd rather be
There's no place else you'd rather be
