A Close Shave

     Soldier's Defense, Midday

Another cloudless day. The sun moving through the sky as if nothing was different. Events that happen countries over sometimes goes unnoticed. The only notion that anything was different was that of a typically stalwart and renowned coach was sitting on a stool in front of a mirror. Covered from head to toe in salve ridden bandages, a small razor presses against the side of her head, moving deliberately from front to back as singed white hairs drift to the ground. It looks as if the left side of her took a brief swim in a vat of alchemist's fire, several of her clothes nearby show similar damage, burned away and brittle.

And, despite all this, the reddened bandage on her flank, the burns; the wrappings across her face part briefly to reveal of a flash of a titanic, towering grin that just cannot seem to drop away.

The Temperance enters quietly, her normal robes and armor replaced with a white gown, gloves and face mask. Her eyes hold a concerned expression, and she squints while observing the Monk. The expression on Aryia's face slowly eases the Goblin's mind.

"Would you like some assistance in shaving?", Simony asks quietly. "I have some ... experience with that, having eaten more than my liking of fireballs and other fiery magics."

While waiting on an answer, she moves around the room to make sure all the proper amenities are present: towels, tissues, bandages and various ointments and the like. "I can also acquire some tincture that will help your hair regrow in a relatively short time, if that would please you? You could also ask my source himself, Telamon Lypecyll-Atlon. I believe you are familiar with the gentleman." The Gobbo giggles lightly.

"I sure hope whomever did that had his ass handed to him after you kicked it clean off."

The Soldier's Defense is oft occupied by many clergy given its purpose. This includes Mourners, though the majority perform their duties in a room separate from the main treatment halls for numerous reasons. This day, however, Verna is not attired in her vestments and instead in a practical dress. She may not be present on official business, or simply not wish to unnerve the living yet under restorative care and rest... or who -should- be resting, at the least.

Verna moves past the other beds, quietly coming to a halt short of the Temperance and the patient. "It was not returned," she assures and clarifies, "but was, instead, wholly removed. Regardless of said talents, some would be wise to heed healers and partake of advised rest."

Aryia's razer halts, the mute's glowing gaze flicking past the mirror to spy the little Temperance. A half gone eyebrow quirks up at the notion before her shoulders shrug. The razer twirls with a flair in her fingers before being held handle first towards Simony. She shakes her head at the offer of a tincture. It didn't seem like she was too off put from the loss of hair.

She's about to offer a quip or answer, but then, the Mourner supplies it. "I'm sitting, that counts as resting in my book," Aryia signs, lightly sticking her tongue out. "But Verna is right; it was beating, cleaved, magically melted and divinely seared into fucking /nothing/."

The grin returns, a long exhale trailing from her nose. "I felt so fucking /alive/ during that." <Handspeech/Tongues>

The Goblin takes up the razor, moving to pull a chair close to where Aryia has settled, and standing on it. She chuckles briefly, reading the signs as Aryia forms them. Simony looks over her shoulder briefly to nod at Verna, before turning back to the task at hand. "Just the burnt bits, plus a little to make it more or less exactly half?", she murmurs.

"It does not surprise me, Verna, that Aryia is not resting despite being admonished. It is a common trait of patients whom are injured, but still feel... hmm, how to put it? Whole? The danger with a burn is mostly infection. Once healing spells have been cast, the wounds treated... I suppose I don't need to explain, with you being a healer. You know full well how stubborn people can be."

The Goblin chuckles once more as she carefully shaves away the crispy hair one little tuft at a time.

"I know well a number of stubborn people," Verna concurs with Simony, leaving that to hang briefly without any harsh tone of admonishment. "Thus I shall limit my advice to that already granted. My concerns are met enough that you are alive and further that you felt and feel such so strongly. A benefit, perhaps, from such ... strong will."

Aryia shrugs a shoulder. "Sure, whatever works. It's just hair," the mute motions at the mirror. A snort leaves her. "No no, it still hurts, but it's manageable. Trust me, I'll rest proper. If I'm anything I'm a good patient."

She holds stock still for Simony, a smirk melding into the grin. "You can call me cocky, Verna, it's okay," she snickers. "Sorry, just after so much bullshit of talking and waiting and poetry and whatever, I was really itching to do something. And behold, the biggest fuck off scorpion crab thing comes ripping out of the abyss. I kicked that bitch into the Abyss as well as out of the /ground/. Fuck me, I'm /never/ coming off that high."

Her gaze drops to her bandaged hands, them covered as well, fingers flexing. "Whatever that celestial did... is that what it feels like to channel your gods? It's been so long for me, I've forgotten. It was burn that felt really good." <Handspeech/Tongue>

Behind her mask, Simony grins broadly. "It is only hair, but sometimes, hair is part of your.. pride? It is a little traumatic to be set on fire, and lose things like your hair, and eyebrows. It was very difficult for me. So I am happy that you are taking it in stride. But know that I empathize, and will be a shoulder to lean on, if you need. And yes, you should rest after. We appreciate patient... patients." The razor slowly clears the burnt hair, the Goblin working smoothly and carefully. "If the pain becomes too much, please be sure to talk to any of the doctors, nurses or clerics. Being stubborn can be a good thing, but don't let pain get in the way of sleep, okay?"

She giggles at the description of Aryia's fight with the crab. "I remember my first, honest to goodness adventure fight. I was frightened, and one of the undead bit me, it hurt so much. I screamed. And right away, others moved to help me. That's is what made the fight for me, I wasn't alone, and we were fighting together. My fear went away. It's ... easier now. I hope I can get to that place you are in, Aryia. To be charged up in the face of such adversity."

She looks to Verna and grins. "Call it what it is... stubbornness. Life is so fragile, as you well know, I would assume. Stubbornness is a survival trait, and makes all the difference." The last bits of hair are removed, and Simony hops from the chair, to clean up the fallen tufts of hair.

"If the feeling was of being connected to something much larger than yourself? Of being imbued with righteous power, and a feeling of being able to do the impossible? Of something, across a vast distance, looking in on you, and smiling? Of being loved? That's probably what you felt, Aryia."

"I am far less adept a healer than many," she belatedly clarifies to Simony," as my duties more often apply after such opportunities are past." She maintains a respectful distance from the hair care; it would be most inappropriate for her to inadvertently cause injury to a patient in a place of healing. 'Oops' is not a proper verbal component for restorative magic (though perhaps it could be?).

As to the inquiry of channeling divine, she is silent for a significant time in consideration and reflection. This is broken by Simony's response with several blinks before she looks to the Temperance strongly. "That ... is a more apt description, perhaps the most apt, for that situation. Indeed, the celestial empowered us all."

She pauses before adding, "Yet it was not the only one that did so. Perhaps it was a further conduit in and of itself; I am uncertain. I -am- certain that I felt Her presence at that moment, very much as The Temperance described, and in a manner I never have before."

The grin on Aryia's face softens some. "There was a point where yes, it is part of pride. But now, to be honest, the amount of things I've gone through, this physical pain and disfigurement is nothing to me. I appreciate your concern, but trust me I've been hurt worse than this. And not physically. It doesn't change who I am."

There's amusement in her face at the story. "One of the first fights of adventuring I did after I got out of Charn was I had to help clear a stable of oversized flies. It almost killed me. Thankfully the others, like you said, came in to help." She glances to Simony in the mirror as the gobber works. "Word of advice: the fear should never go away. It's what keeps you grounded to what's real. Learn to live with it, and you can take on anything."

With the shaving being done, Aryia wipes the bald side of her head down with a rag and giving the gobber a thankful nod, her other hand gesturing. "Just the feeling of being unstoppable, not the other stuff," she shakes her head. "Felt like myself but as if I was even more present. Akin to a rush of adrenaline but somehow it was even an even higher high than that." She looks at the mirror, righting her shoulders and grinning. "Feels like I'm still riding that wave. Like its still echoing in my bones."

She looks to Verna, head tilting to one side. "How so? Been a long time since I felt like I was any conduit, and that life is long past, so I don't remember. <Handspeech/Tongues>

"I know.. but .. like... I feel now I can tell fear to shut the fuck up, and sit the fuck down, I have stuff to do right now." The Goblin pulls her mask down to show off her cheeky smile. "I doubt fear will ever go away, much like pain is always going to be present in some form. But with experience, you can ignore it. That's where stubbornness comes in."

The razor is set aside, within easy reach should Aryia wish to adjust her hair further. The shaved hair is put into a small bin.

"I have thought upon the subject for some time, Verna. What my connection to my deity feels like. Navos may lack the compassion he once had, but he does still smile, and he has never failed to hear my prayers. He must get some joy out of making someone so small feel so big."

Simony looks back to Aryia. "I would offer, Aryia, that there are numerous Gods out there, you may yet find one whom fits your.. temperament. It is a feeling you could get back, if you truly wished."

Verna's lips purse at Aryia's request for clarification. Not due to the inquiry, per se, but as she considers the most appropriate and/or informative response. "It was a sensation; subjective and difficult to convey." One hand gestures to Simony. "Her offering was quite eloquent and valid." It is a subconscious stall, perhaps, as she further considers a moment longer.

"I would describe what I experienced as ... truth; a certainty of knowledge of fact. There was no recollection, no cause for it, yet it was present. The fiend's true name; it's obligation to return to Her Halls; even the return of the celestial beforehand. None of these could I expect to know nor enact. Whether Mourner, Mage, or both, there are limits."

"Yet all of these fell within The Harpist's purview. She is not subject to such limits. Thus the only logical conclusion, no matter how unlikely, is Her more direct involvement."

"And I am pretty fucking stubborn," Aryia grins towards Simony. "So I get it." The razor is collected, wiped off on a rag, and is tossed into a pile on the side of a cot that has the pugilist's things.

She glances at the Temperance and her offer. A brow raises. "While true as that may be that someone such as Angoron or Kor would suit me best, the desire to connect with the greater beyond is long past gone. I feel best as I am. And right now, I feel /great/." Simony gets a bandaged pat on the head. "Appreciate it though."

She swivels on her chair towards Verna, curious. Glowing eyes tilt up, to the side, down, squint, then nod briefly. "Logical and apt. Having met the Harpist once- without being ended- I can see Her having a direct involvement with ensuring that things that circumnavigate her purview come to a proper end." <Handspeech/Tongues>

The Goblin is appreciative of the pat on the head, her own hand reaching up to pat Aryia's hand delicately. "That is fine. I see... hmmm, I may anger or offend people with what I am about to say, but I doubt either of you would. We all need faith, but we don't all need the same amount or kind. Some have faith in themselves, others in good solid, equipment and daring do, some in the arcane and yet others in the Gods." Simony offers a little shrug. "In the end, there is still a place for all in the afterlife. The Grey Mourner herself will see to it." She glances to Verna, and tsks.

"I believe I have misheard you. The Gods do not directly intervene in the affairs of the mortal world, only through their priests. None, I believe, would step in short of the disastrous end of this plane of existence. You, or the Celestial, acted in Her stead, surely." The Goblin replaces her mask, the barest hint of a wink sent Aryia's way. "A game of cards, was it?" A little wave is offered, "I shall leave you two, I must continue my rounds. Be well!"

Verna remains in reflection, head dipping to nod with Aryia and Simony and their opinions. "Indeed," is her slightly distracted response. She bids Simony a return fare well, which ultimately seems to free her from her pondering. "Likewise, I should leave you to your rest, however you wish to take it. I am pleased that you feel best, over other alternatives." With that, she excuses herself and moves to depart.