"I have met many who will not throw their lives away, but would let their lives be washed away at the first opportunity."
In those final months of Hydaelyn and Zodiark's battle she had watched far too many of her people choose to stop fighting to survive. Some out of tiredness, some out of hopelessness, and others out of guilt. It hurt her like nothing else, until that day—
Azem shakes her head, then rises from her seat to gather some things from her shelf to make him an ointment. Small bits of various herbs and a pinch of gold dust, all placed into a small glass jar that barely fits in the palm of her smaller form.
In theory she could simply create it with aether alone, but medicines are more effective when the key ingredients are grown. Herbs for medicinal effect, gold for aetherial conductivity...
"You allowed me to aid you. That is repayment enough," she answers. "I'm making a salve that will help with whatever else ails your flesh. Consider it a 'thank you' for making me feel useful."
She weaves together the rest of the ointment using aether of radiant gold, blending the raw ingredients with magic and creation, infusing it with restorative properties. She finishes it off with one final flourish of her wrist and ignores the way her strained soul begins to writhe in pain.
It takes her two steps until the table is within reach. Azem is quick to kneel down and place the ointment carefully upon it, but unfortunately finds herself unable to rise to her feet again. Unwilling to cause the man any undue concern, she simply acts as though this was her intended course of action; keeps her fingers clenched firmly against the leg of the table, obscuring the way they shake. Her mask is a blessing for how it hides the way cold sweat begins beading upon her brow.
"It's— It should relieve aches and pains, and stimulate natural recovery."
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In those final months of Hydaelyn and Zodiark's battle she had watched far too many of her people choose to stop fighting to survive. Some out of tiredness, some out of hopelessness, and others out of guilt. It hurt her like nothing else, until that day—
Azem shakes her head, then rises from her seat to gather some things from her shelf to make him an ointment. Small bits of various herbs and a pinch of gold dust, all placed into a small glass jar that barely fits in the palm of her smaller form.
In theory she could simply create it with aether alone, but medicines are more effective when the key ingredients are grown. Herbs for medicinal effect, gold for aetherial conductivity...
"You allowed me to aid you. That is repayment enough," she answers. "I'm making a salve that will help with whatever else ails your flesh. Consider it a 'thank you' for making me feel useful."
She weaves together the rest of the ointment using aether of radiant gold, blending the raw ingredients with magic and creation, infusing it with restorative properties. She finishes it off with one final flourish of her wrist and ignores the way her strained soul begins to writhe in pain.
It takes her two steps until the table is within reach. Azem is quick to kneel down and place the ointment carefully upon it, but unfortunately finds herself unable to rise to her feet again. Unwilling to cause the man any undue concern, she simply acts as though this was her intended course of action; keeps her fingers clenched firmly against the leg of the table, obscuring the way they shake. Her mask is a blessing for how it hides the way cold sweat begins beading upon her brow.
"It's— It should relieve aches and pains, and stimulate natural recovery."