Wound Treatment [Open]

[Folie]

Folie limped into the Seelie Court from the snows, shedding his torn fur jacket the moment that the magical warmth closed in about him. His long white hair was twisted up into a ragged bun, held in place by a bone-white arrow that wasn't made of any standard, recognizable materials. His pure-white countenance was stained, marred not just by the usual blood-red of his lips, but by the true blood that was leaking from a simply-bandaged wound on his leg.

Stopping at the first convenient resting spot he could find - a seat of wood, shaped into the trunk of one of the many huge trees in such a way that it looked almost as if it were natural - he dropped down to eye his leg. After a moment he undid the bandage, a scrap of his lovely white fur coat, and stared at the wound.

The wound, contrary to everything that almost every Fae would have expected of such a thing, continued to bleed.

It had been....over an hour? Several hours? Five minutes? It had been a good long while since he'd been injured, and the wound should have closed by now, should have been long-healed and forgotten, leaving behind no mark at all on his pale skin. But instead he bled still, was injured still.

Oh, and he was starting to feel light-headed, too. He'd left behind a trail of blood that had seeped through his pants and the bandage, and it hadn't stopped yet at all. How strange.

"Where have you come from, little death-killer? Little ender-of-life? I don't wish to lose things just...yet," he said, head dipping for just a moment before he jerked it back upright. This was an awfully strange experience indeed.

[naria]

A rustle of satin and velvet preceded Naria's arrival by only a few moments. As usual, she was barefoot as she walked along the grassy corridors of the Seelie Palace. Also as usual when she was out of the library, she was following her mantel. The mouse paused and sniffed the air when a stray gust brought the smell of blood to them, then little Lightfoot vanished into the nimbus' floor-length skirts with a flip of his long gray tail.

The girl tilted her head, listening to the angle of the breeze before turning towards Folie. She stared at him for a long moment, then approached slowly. Her gaze was distant and serene, as if she were dreaming while walking about, and the bottom edge of her long dim purple dress was stained as green as her eyes. Only the color of her hair, long and the shade of new brass, made her look more than human as she knelt in front of Folie.

"You bleed. We are not supposed to bleed over long. May I tend to your wound?" The mouse peeked around her ankle as she laid down a slender volume of poetry rather than continue to hold it in one long-fingered hand.

[Folie]

"We are not supposed to bleed at all, or only for a short while until the bleeding stops. It is fascinating, is it not? The immortal reduced to the mere mortal." The white eyes were directed downward toward the wound in his leg. Or perhaps he was looking at the nimbus who knelt by him, pale gaze tracing over the brassy locks as if they were a path to all of the answers at the end of the universe. Or maybe he was looking at nothing at all, though that was a little more doubtful.

"I wonder what it is like, to be mortal? Peter knew what he was talking about, I think: death would be an awfully big adventure." He didn't plan on dying, of course. There were so many other things he wanted to do, was planning on doing. But it was an interesting thought regardless. "Have you ever had a near-death experience? I've had near-Trance experiences, but that's different, isn't it? I certainly think so, but who knows? Who knows what dreams may come when we have shuffled off this mortal - or immortal - coil." Folie's voice was sing-song and dreamy, the words coming out with a breathy sort of sound, and he reached to poke at the arrow wound. "I should have healed long ago."