Taevi Xanalas was trading scars.

"He hasn't spoken yet," the stranger had said. Taevi hated the old healer, hated the way she fussed over him like a mother hen. Hated the way she stared at him as though the young man was some oddity to be ogled at. He wanted to be alone.

"Give him time... He'll come around."

Taevi didn't want to come around. He didn't want to talk, he didn't want to be here in this strange place, kept in this strange white room that lacked the warm scent of life. The infirmary always seemed stifling, the bleach white emptiness choked him. Stark, bleak... Just like his eyes as they stared out the window, watching the light play across the smudges on the glass. Ant-sized people wandered the citadel's surrounding city far below, oblivious to any sort of sadness...

He didn't even know why he was here... This strange place that his rescuers had brought him. Minas Tirith, had they called it? The name sound foreign and delicate compared to the rough, brutal tones he was used to. Why here? Taevi didn't know. He knew only his past. His mind was entangled in years of slavery to those barbaric northerners. All because he was different...

Half-elven scum.

The strangers had left him for a while, said they were going down for lunch in the hall, asked her if he wanted to come. Why did they even bother asking? It'd been a week already, they should know by now his only answer would be that blank stare...

Now, Taevi stared at the gleaming blade in his hand, he felt nothing. His grey eyes stared hard at the mark on her shoulder where those scum had branded her. He could still feel the heat of the white-hot iron, even four years after it had bitten into his pale skin. It itched at his subconcious, made him feel dirty. With shaking hands, he gouged at it with the infirmary keeper's scalpel that he had stolen from the drawer, making the bleach white sheets red with each drop of blood that pulsed from the wound. Had to rid himself of it, had to make it go away... Go, please! Hot blood trickling between his slender fingers, no pain, just a quiet madness, a determination... Make it go away! The air was thickening with the metallic scent of blood.

Taevi sat on the edge of the bed trembling, eyes grey and troubled, trading scars.

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~*~ I am the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. ~*~

I'm not sure how you want us to join in but here I go...
name:Deawen
age: 17
race: Human, Rohirric
Appearance: Long copper hair that is always kept tied back. Pale skin and light blue/gray eyes. Short stature. Wears dark greens and reds.
Attitude: Deawen is a calm young woman, she was raised to be proper young lady and lives up to the name. She is gentle and quiet but can have a streak of pure stubborn. She loves to laugh.
History: Deawen born to the nobility of the Westfolde, she was raised to be a lady of the court. When she was thirteen she became a handmaiden to the queen and then later released to Minas tirith so she could visit the royal court there.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Deawen carried a basket filled with various herbs for the healer. She made her way through the archways keeping mainly to herself. Her long tresses tied back from her face exposed a pale oval face, a testament to her proud heritage. She entered the infirmary and noticed no one was there save for a figure she didn't see right away. She looked up and saw the vivid red stains of fresh blood on the sheets, then she saw what the person was doing. " Stop!" Deawen cried putting down the basket and rushing over to him. Being a handmaiden exposed her to the ways of a shieldmaiden as well, with a swift movement she grabbed his wrist and pulled the scalpel away from his skin. She was slightly horrified but she erased that from her mind.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

((Yeah, I'm more used to just diving into rp's. Thanks for posting the bio! It's not all that necessary if anyone else doesn't want to, but it helps. I should put one up, too, I guess ))

A sound of frustrated agony boiled up in Taevi's throat and he tried to fight her off, his body rigid against her grip. "No!" The word burst from him angrily, the first word he had spoken in weeks. In a fit of madness, he tried to continue his self-mutilation, then suddenly relaxed with a groan.

The half-blood stared at the gaping red wound on his shoulder as though mystified by the curiosity of how it got there. The knife fell from his hand and clattered to the floor.

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~*~ I am the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. ~*~

Deawen kicked the blade to a corner swifty, so it no longer caused trouble. Deawen shaking from the excitment sighed in relief, "þǽrbig Orome, áscildan hiem" Deawen muttered to herself, slipping back into her ease. She looked at the bloody wound and bit her lip, she stood up and retrieved some bandages and water. She sat down next to him and gingerly cleansed the wound.
" Why did you do this?" she asked quietly,
her voice so soft it was barely above a whisper. It wasn't until she wiped away the blood and exposed undamaged skin that she saw part of the brand. Her brow knitted fiercely into a frown, as she tried to fit the puzzle of a story together.
"What is your name?" she asked as she wrapped the bandage around the wound.

(How old is Taevi?)

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

(( He looks around 19 or 20, but since he's half elvish, I'd say somewhere around 40 or 50, technically. ))

Taevi trembled slightly, staring down at his bloodied hands which rested on his lap. He let her clean his wound, staring hazily at her motions with his grey eyes. After a stretch of silence, he answered quietly, his voice barely a whisper. "Taevi," he replied softly, though he gave no cause to his infliction. "Taevi Xanalas."

_________________


~*~ I am the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. ~*~

(This looks like a good RP! Is it set before the War of the Ring or afterwards? )

_________________


~~Siggy by Lembas~~

(( Afterwards, but not that long after. Maybe 60 years or so. Please, feel free to join! ))

_________________


~*~ I am the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. ~*~

(60 years! Wow! I'll make a profile.)

Name: Alya
Age: 19
Race: Gondorian
Gender: Female
Personality: Quiet, graceful, intelligent
Appearance: Long, dark red hair, bright blue eyes, pale skin
History: Alya was born in Minas Tirith, and has lived there all her life. She was trained to be a healer from a young age, and now attends upon the sick in Minas Tirith.

Alya walked into the room, humming lightly, carrying an armful of fresh bed linen. She had just closed the door when she noticed Taevi, hands covered in blood, with Deawen attending to his wound. "Any trouble here, Deawen?" she said softly, noticing the blade in the corner.

_________________


~~Siggy by Lembas~~

(I think I'll join this one as well.)

Grair stalked into the infirmary, it was the third time they had been there this week. A broken nose, a nasty cut and now a dislocated shoulder and a cut. He glanced behind him at half-elf whose shoulder hung awkwardly despite their straight backed walk.

"Honestly, Thorn. Is there anything you have not done to that poor, broken thing you like to call a body?" He questioned gruffly while the half-elf wiggled a scarred brow and leered at him even as her hand was stuffed into a gaping wound near her ribs.

"If I did not know you better, Grair, I would say you are worried," she retorted taking a turn around the corner. It was not entirely strange for the woman to be walking about with such injuries she had had so many that they all started to seem rather trivial. Today, she had decided to give the healers a break and stitch herself. Or maybe she'd teach Grair, it was a good skill to learn.

The odd pair went relatively unnoticed save for a few new comers who were not quite use to their coming and going, and were altogether quite terrified of them.

Maethoriel took a seat on an open table in the supply room while Grair dug through the cabinets and tossed various bandages and stitching tools at her. Muttering dwarvish obscenities...most of which were directed at his friend.

Meanwhile the woman had leaned up against the wall and forced her shoulder against it brutally causing it to fall back in place with a disturbing crack.

"The wizard shall be angry with you," he commented while wincing at the harsh treatment.

"Let him be, that shall be no different than usual. Meddling old man that he is," she rejoined taking a needle off the counter. Grair rolled his eyes and leaned against the wall waiting until they could leave again.

_________________
Heavens no. Hell Yeah.


Set 1: Nurr | Set 2: Me

Deawen smiled softly " They told me you didn't talk." she commented quietly as she tied off the bandages. " I am Deawen of the Westfolde." she said wiping off his hands. Deawen looked up when Alya came in. " Nothing I can't handle..." she replied evenly.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

(( Hey Mae! ^,^ ))

Taevi flinched away from her slightly - he didn't much like being touched, and the presence of the healer, Alya, had unnerved him a bit (not to mention the sudden commotion as two beings rushed into the supply closet). Tae was unusually flighty, quickly pulling back inside himself. He sat staring at his lap, shoulders and back tensed.

_________________


~*~ I am the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. ~*~

Alya nodded and walked across the room. She placed the clean linen by the bed and set about stripping it of the blood-stained sheets. "Very good," she said quietly when Deawen replied to her. Alya hardly ever raised her voice to above the lowest of murmurs.
When the bed was made she dusted down her hands. She looked at Taevi carefully before folding up the old sheets.

_________________


~~Siggy by Lembas~~

Taevi stared coldly at her for a long moment, fidgeting like a caged animal. His tawny blonde hair flopped down in front of his eyes as he dropped his gaze and hung his head like a child who'd been caught misbehaving.

_________________


~*~ I am the Patron Saint of Lost Causes. ~*~

Deawen frowned again this time out of concern, "Alya I'm going to take him outside, being indoors cannot be good for anyone for very long." She said getting to her feet. " Come out to the gardens." she said lightly.

_________________
Lips, ripe as the berries in June
Red the rose, red the rose
Skin, pale as the light of the moon
Gently as she goes

as always a hero comes home

"Alright," Alya replied to Deawen's words. "But not for too long." She gazed around the room to see if there was anything out of place or untidy, before returning it to Deawen and her patient.

_________________


~~Siggy by Lembas~~

Maethoriel yelped in pain (a strange occurrence) and cursed in every language she knew. The dwarf she was fairly sure had just hit bone with the needle, she did not think that was possible.

"Grair! That's my rib! I thought you bloody dwarves were supposed to be good with fixing things!" She growled at him, her teeth bared with pain.

"Well, Thorn. It is difficult to do this with all of your bloody hovering and instructing!" He scolded, looking down at the stitches in her side that were in fact quite terrible looking.

"Give me the knife, Grair. I am going to do it myself. That was an awful first try," she said grimacing at the bruised flesh. The woman cut the stitches easily and grabbed the needle and thread from the dwarf, who relinquished the tools surprisingly fast.

"Honestly," she muttered, working the needle through skin and muscle with fast sharp strokes of her hand.

Grair rolled his eyes. "You had best hope it will not get infected," he reminded.

"It will not get infected, Grair," she replied sardonically. "Make sure no one is on the way, I would not want a fuss."

"Oh, no..." he said sarcastically, "we would not want that."

_________________
Heavens no. Hell Yeah.


Set 1: Nurr | Set 2: Me