Admittance of Fault

Log Info

• Title: Admittance of Fault
• Emitter: Skielstregar
• Characters: Skielstregar, Vaera
• Place: Mictlan
• Time: September 22, 2021
• Summary: After a time recovering from their indulgence of The Hunger, Skielstregar had parked himself near where the shamans rest for his own good. Waking up that morning, he finds that his half burned cloak is taken, and he follows the trail over to the thief. Finding Vaera, he cautiously greets her, leaving and returning with a simple breakfast. She ends up knowing what he did, and the bronzescale, with intense shame, apologises again and again. Vaera pulls him into a hug and makes him promise that he will come to her should such Hunger arise again. He speaks of not wanting to fail at his duty once more, hence his fear and distance from The People. Vaera accepts it, and shows him what she was working on: repairing his cloak from the time it was halfway torched in Happy Valley. They make light of some of his features, and they end up being okay with the half-dead sith-makar sleeping in Vaera's camp so she could keep an eye on him.

Mictlan, Morning.

It's a sleepy and dewy dawn in Mictlan, a low fog rolls throughout the commune. Among the inner parts of the gathering place where the shaman's lay for rest, a large figure is curled up nearby outside. Covered in furs and in the shade, the slight chill seemed to not disturb them. Clutched in their hands to their chest was a symbol of the Dragonfather, with fresh bandages on their arms.

The figure shifts quietly, armor set off to the side next to him so his rousing was merely pelts falling off of him. A large yawn leaves him, a gout of frozen air spilling forth from a fanged maw. If an undead looked like they slept terribly, then he was a perfect example. Skielstregar rubs at this eyes and quietly sighs, hugging his knees as he slowly wakes up.

It was a cool day in Mictlan, in spite of the magics present. Though, it was not without note, either. where his armor and other clothes had been set down, while mostly set as he had left them, there was a telltale absence of the flame scarred cloak of the bronzescale. It looked like someone had taken it specifically, as the stack was a bit too organized with the armor.

But the tracks were not covered, and recognizeable. There was only one person in the village with one clawed foot and a flat block next to it to make prunts, leading off towards the river.

Skielstregar took a few minutes wo awaken, the dawning fires for breaking the fast of sleep just now beginning. It wasn't until he go over the hurdle of interacting with the day did he turn his head to his belongings. A hand reached out, and touched metal. Clink.

A bit confused, he looks down, it growing into perplexion. Did... someone take his belongings? That seemed something like The People wouldn't do at all...

A heavy sigh. He probably deserved it, he thinks to himself as he gets to his feet and follows the tracks. Exhausted brain not even clicking with who's trail he was following.

Once the treeline broke towards the river, It was easy enough to see the culprit. they had a small camp, Mostly just a tarp across the ground with a bow and quiver upon it, a roll of dark blue cloth and several tools. And here sat a dark red makari, bare from the waist up save for the leather skirt they were wearing , with a dark sheet of fabric- his cloak, in their lap.

Skielstregar grows confused as he saw the sight before him. Not just who the culprit was, but as well as the scarring that the redscale had. He knew she had some hardships, but did not know it extended that far.

He clears his throat, a deep rumble. "... Peace on your nest, Vaera..." he mumbles in greeting a bit a ways away, clad in simple breeches and a sleeveless shirt, and nothing more. The armor he wore barely added anything to his frame, as he was a large, lumbering figure in his own right.

The red makari was covered in scars, and the thinness was even more pronounced, like one who had been starved in the past. And with their back turned towards him, it was littered with the telltale signs of lashings.

"There is none." She states in response to the greeting, and she turns, a needle in one hand, and a glare in her eyes, but it dissipated quickly.

"But, thank you. Peace on your nest, Skielstregar." They continue.

Skielstregar doesn't say anything just yet, him hanging his head for a moment as he watches her work. He holds up a long talon, turns, and leaves.

A few minutes later, the smell of flame broiled food wafted through the woods, the large man carefully making his way over to the camp with two large skewers in hand. He finds a seat nearby, crosses his legs, and wordlessly offers one to Vaera. It felt like she knew. And it was written all in his visage and his scent. Remorse, guilt, doubled with his head hung low.

Vaera chuffs, and nods at the held up talon. It looked like she was sewing a patch of blue cloth into part of the cloak. When they left, she turned back to her work. Only to pause again to sniff at the air. She turned and nodded back to Skielstregar again. There was enough room on the tarp that even he could find a seat next to her. She finishes tying off a thread, and a claw cuts it off before she set the cloak off to the side, already with many patches made.

"Thank you." She says as she takes one of the skewers. "You were gone from the camp for some time. This one was worried."

Skielstregar's patchy throat bobbed as she points that out. From the bandages on his arms, the question would be simple to answer with mere observation. A long talon picks at one of the cubed cuts, dead eyes glancing to the cloth in her hand. "You are welcome..."

A heavy sigh. In a mumble, he says, "... this one had... did it again. They are sorry for worrying you. This one's... hunger hit. Hard. And scared themselves... Un'eth and a silverscale already reprimanded this one for it..."

The tarnished scale looks so... tired.

Vaera looks at the bronze scaled makari as they picked at their food. She chuffs and plucks a piece off of her own skewer to offer.

"This one knew. But this one thought you had it under control until you disappeared." She states in her bizarre neutrality. Perhaps it was worse, he could not tell how angry or dissapointed she was.

"You have not chanhed your bandages yet today. Allow me to clean your wounds."

Skielstregar lowers his head further, almost to the point where it was between his knees. Shame. So much shame. A glance is taken towards the offered pieces, him shakily sighing and taking the morsel with this digits. He eats it mechanically. Slowly.

He turns to face Vaera, planting his skewer into the ground so it wouldn't fall over as he holds both arms out.

Should she open the bandages, she would find such wounds completely healed over, only recent scars atop the ones that existed there.

"... t... t-this one... i-is... s-sorry..." he trembles in a quiet hiss, more wind than rumble as he closes his eyes.

Vaera set down her meal as well as she unraveled the bandages. She chuffs, and takes a flask from a pack and a rag. Wet, and used to wash off the arms quickly. The bandages rolled and set aside.

"What did this one tell you about dissapearing as a hermit? If you were so concerned, you should have sought me out." She states, one hand raising his head, so they were eye level. "This one would have been there to help, to stop you."

Skielstregar lets Vaera do her work, talons twitching under the cleaning. The wounds appear to have received some magical assistance in knitting closed, and have not been picked at since then. His head rises as it is lifted. His frame trembles, the scales under his eyes glinting damp from the scant light that filters through the trees. Slowly, dead orbs slide open, look to Vaera, then glance down.

"... t-this one... h-has no excuses, a-aside from their own insecurities..." he poorly explains, putting the weight of his head onto the hand. So... tired...

With the arms cleaned, she tilts her head. And she takes another cloth, bringing it to dab gently beneath their eyes. One hand kept their head up.

and then she pulled the trembling bronzescale into a hug, positioning their head over a shoulder. There was a scent of reassurance now, and an accompanying rumbled that could be felt as well as heard. A hand ran down their back firmly, to be felt through the scales.

"If you cannot do something alone Skielstregar, trust in your kin to help." She rumbles.

Skielstregar sniffles, it sounding more like a snort due to his size, as sadness practically overpowered his normally deathly scent. There's a hitch in his breath as he is pulled forward, and arms wrap around the half-dead man. His body cold. Almost lifeless. He sat there for a few beats of his still living heart, before faint trickles could be felt dropping against Vaera's back.

Carefully, he returns the embrace. Mindful of his strength, and his extra features. "... t-this one cannot... c-cannot be alone anymore. T-They have failed themselves. And they regret failing y-you..." he rumbles back, voice taut as he trembles in the hold.

Where the bronzescale was deathly cold, the dark red makari radiated warmth, and life. Fitting perhaps, given her name. The arms were solid, and supportive the hand on his back continuing to make its, and her, presence known. The rumble, the reassuring scent continuing.

"You are not alone. You are kin, you are welcome. The tribe looks out for each other." She continues to rumble. "It was a failure, yes, but not a permanent one. This one will forgive you, Skielstregar. If you will move forward, and not repeat the mistake. Promise this one that, that you will seek me, or the shamans out when in need."

Skielstregar holds on a bit tighter to sap what little warmth he could from her, breath growing more ragged as Vaera quietly reassures him. The wave of sadness and shame slowly filtered in elements of relief. He did not take her offers up briskly, letting his frayed nerves settle, and his trembling to cease.

The tarnished scale pulls away slowly, using the palms of his hands to wipe free his scales below his eyes. "... t.. this one p..."

He stops himself, building himself back up. No platitudes. No empty promises. The warrior takes both of Vaera's hands and kneels deeply in front of her, head reaching down until fangs kiss the ground. "This one. Promises. They will not repeat this mistake. They promise," Skielstregar firmly states, the symbol of the Dragonfather tapping against their hands from the cord on his neck. "Thank you for your forgiveness. Thank you."

When Skielstregar tightened the hug, Vaera did so as well. "Your concerns are valid, yet so are your feelings. You cannot ignore one completely in favor of the other." She rumbles. She was there as long as needed, until he finally pulls away. Yellow eyes meet dull silver, and there was no anger or dissapointment.

She looks down as he kneels, and offers his words. The hand held squeeze back. "Thank you for believing in yourself, and in your kin, Skielstregar." Vaera responds, opening one of his hands to return the skewered meat to it. "This one believes it has been too long since you have been close to kin."

He returns the squeeze, him slowly sitting back upright. There's a warbled smile on his maw. "This... this one was worried you would be upset. It is... hard to balance the two."

Skielstregar cycles a breath, and slowly nods, letting the skewer be placed in his hand as he settled back down. "... yes. It has been too long. This one has forgotten the bond that The People have. They had failed once at their caste. They worry again if they fail once more. It is hard to remember they need to protect The People from others. Not themselves."

The skewer goes to his mouth, and he quietly nibbles on it.

Vaera sat back down, next to the bronzescale, and using the cloth from before to wipe off her back. She picked up her own skewer and tore off a chunk of meat.

"This one is upset you did not seek me out, or the others. But this one is more concerned about your health than being upset, Skielstregar." She states after swallowing the meat. She reaches to take a hand again, mindful of the claws. The palm warming the cold makari.

"This one, this one failed. Badly. So much, this one feels undeserving of their cast, of their name. Both were cast off, until perhaps some day, this one feels it is right." She continues, quieting some. "But you, you have not failed. This one has been protected by you, it has been noted."

Skielstregar hang his head a bit again, but was quick to pick it back up. He nibbles more, his dead eyes dulling slightly. Fingers twitch to curl around the hand. "... this one's health... their mind is... not good," he answers truthfully. "And the answer for healing is with The People."

He looks over, sympathy washing over his features and scent. And a bit of pride. "... against a mob of small softskins, their weapons of pebble and sticks," he weakly chuckles. "This one hardly calls it protection. But this one understands. They... could not stop the softskins back home. They just do not wish to go through the same again."

"You will heal, Skielstregar." Vaera states firmly, with an accompanying look to the bronzescale. "This one will be there to help, to listen, to talk, to help you heal. As will many others."

At that, Vaera swishes her tail once, brushing it against the one beside her. "And you would have done the same against a wild swiftclaw, or many other threats I feel." Vaera replies. "The softskins, they can be difficult. But you cannot let them bring you down with them."

"And this one thank you, and will do so." Skiel dips his head, his tail flicking back to nudge against Vaera's as well. "This one... would have. It is their duty. But yes, you are right. They can be difficult. Speaking of..."

His eyes flick to his cloak. "You are repairing what was burned away...? You are too kind."

Vaera follows his gaze to the cloak, and she chuffs, nodding. She holds up the fabric, where the smaller burns were stitched up, and the larger sections too big to do so, had been cut free of the charred cloth, to be replaced with patches of blue fabric. not just patches, but shapes. The blue accompanied by white embroideries, in the shape of snowflakes. Though it was unfinished still.

"You were fast asleep, so this one let you sleep." She explains. "This one still thinks it would be good for you to have a new one, but it would be a waste to throw this one out. So this one thought they could repair it, so you may have one in case another gets burnt, some time."

Skielstregar blinks, eyes widening at the sight of it. A hand reaches out, fingers splaying wide so the talons would steer clear of the fabric so he could run a hand along the new fabric. "Vaera..." he rumbles quietly, hand retracting to rest on her shoulder. His smile grows. "You... this is kind of you. This one thanks you for your help. Doubly so without this one's asking."

Vaera looks back, and she stretches out the fabric so he could look at it. at the hand on her shoulder, she chuffs, tail thumping once, and brushing again against his. She was pleased to see the bronzescale comfortable enough to do so.

"This one, was not sure if it would be alright, but is glad it was. This one was, saddened slightly, still seeing you going about with your cloak damaged so badly."

"It is alright. This one had... again, forgotten The People and never asked for help mending it," Skiel admits. "And they are no good at mending clothes for... various reasons." He gives a slightly rumble of a chuckle, his talons clanking together.

You forgot that kin look out for each other in ways they cannot themself." Vaera notes As she returns to her work mending the cloak with a squeeze of the hand. At the chuckle, she looks to the hand, and chuckles just the slightest herself.

"Perhaps not. Though if this one's are more needs mending, perhaps they will seek you out. This one thinks your claws, they would make an excellent Awl."

At that, the half-dead sith barks a laugh. "Hah! An awl with these would only befit leather meant for a swiftsclaw! Else it will tear everything else asunder. And this one wouldn't want to mess any of your carvings up."

A long, warm (but actually cold) sigh comes from him, and nibbles on the last of the sekwer. Using it to pick at his teeth when he was done. "But seriously, Vaera. Thank you. If... you are willing, would you be comfortable with this one resting at your camp from this point onward? This one cannot be alone anymore."

Vaera chuckles again. She reaches to take a hand, and taps one of the claws against a wooden leg. "Perhaps not with the leather." She agrees with a puff of air. "But the wood carving may still work. Many crafts with larger tools would likely be fine as well."

her Own meal had been finished prior, and she continues, taking a pair of shears to a charred patch of fabric. "This one trusts you. If you would wish to stay at my camp, then you are welcome to do so."

Skielstregar nods, looking at his unnaturally long talons as one is taken to rest against the false leg. "This one will keep that in mind. Let them know if you need a hunk of wood carved down to size."

The scent of decay is dimmed some as gratitude mingles forth. "... it means quite a lot to hear that, coming from you. Thank you."

"I will let you know. But my intent is not to find extra work for you to do." Vaera notes, closing one eye to re thread the needle so she could begin patching it. "Though, help with firewood for Mictlan would be welcome."

The red makari sighs. "This one is not as strong as they used to be."

They pause, sniffing at the air once. "I am not sure if the scent is disguised due to others, or actually diminished. that is curious."

Skielstregar shakes his head, but then smiles. He brings up a patchy arm and flexes a trunk of an arm. "The People can help. This one is your People."

He tilts his head to the side, sniffing as well. "... this one can't tell. This one is so used to it they can't distinguish."

Vaera glances to the arm, and nods with a thump of her tail. "Yes, you are of the people, and this one is glad you accept that." She replies. Another sniff at the air, and the redscale chuckles. "I will think about it. Perhaps you are simply that thankful, but it would be a goid sign if the scent you are concerned about can be stopped in some way."

"This one has to remind themselves of it. Might as well start now," he rumbles, shifting to his knees in preparation to stand. "This one hopes so. If the death can be quelled, then this one might have found a new way to be in control."

He rises, a hand resting on Vaera's shoulder. "This one will go collect their things then return. With firewood." He smiles, unnatural teeth on full display.

"It might be difficult to find ways to keep you grateful however. This one has already welcomed you back to the people, as has Un'eth." She chuckles again, the red makari seeming less reserved in their posture. A glance to the teeth though, and she was thankful she could hide her worry still.

"Very well. This one will be here. Those gnomes seemed to really dislike this cloak."

"Your existence and acceptance of this one is enough." His face falters a bit at the name Un'eth, him almost looking over his shoulder and half expecting to see a hand flying at him. He chuckles and shakes his head. "And they loved the color rainbow."

Skiel steps away, him pausing for a moment to say, "... this one will also let the shamans know where they are, just to be safe. Thank you once more."

With that, Skielstregar lumbers off, the dual miasma of death and decay receding from the camp.

-End Scene-