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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 28, 2015 11:08:40 GMT
Nymara trembled as she felt her mind reach that place, that special moment when body connected with what came after, after life. In her eyes the veils of this world and the next shredded and as usual the strangeness of 'the next' left her physical eyes watering and aching. To Nymara this was the only change to her optical organs, she didn't know every time she 'crossed' that veil her eyes shifted into a brilliant white. Perhaps some might even say 'blindingly'. But Nymara only stood there with her arms outstretched, feeling that strange pull she had with this place, or rather feeling it pull her. As always the sensation ceased after a few seconds and she remembered to breathe. The breaths came in rough guttering gasps, a reminder of the ague she'd caught earlier this winter. " Nymara, Nymara precious girl. You aren't taking great care of yourself are you?" The, unmeant, but satirical nature of the question actually made Nymara laugh. " Isn't that question a little ridiculous father?" Father Mathew of the Silver Crescent order hovered before her, or maybe he just appeared to be before her, Nymara still wasn't entirely sure how this whole after-life thing worked. Either way, the specter wore a disapproving frown within a magisterially well kept beard. Even in 'the next' this man preferred to keep the appearance of a kindly old pastor and from what Nymara saw, one could take on any appearance there. Some of the woman were too ethereally beautiful for they to be so in 'the material' and some of the men far too handsome. " Father, please, I actually did call on you for a reason. I want you to help guide me through the revivification process. I'm going to try it tonight. I think I'm ready." Nymara had constantly been telling the old man the opposite, so the look of surprise and satisfaction on his face wasn't unexpected. It still made her shake her head and hiss a little though, with a sarcastic little half smile of course. " I did tell you, you were ready!" The priest said, with a chuckle that may have held some exasperation still. Set up a stone table in the moonlight, Nymara. Tonight we shall rejoin your hand with your body. <><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>
In time the scene was set but despite Father Mathew declaring the full moon was more than enough, Nymara was still trapped in that kind of ethereal duality between worlds and the soft light of the moon really didn't help break that 'spell' or sight. She needed a real fire, something of once living wood to draw her back to the realm of the material. As the fire chirped at her from behind the mess of stones she'd brought together for a 'table', she could feel and see the distinction between worlds again. More importantly she could see Father Mathew and her skeletal remains of a hand, still. " Alright father, I have the moon and light. I think I'm ready for the . . . remaking?" Nymara wasn't exactly sure what to call the procedure, re-creation seemed a bit presumptuous. Then again, she was attempting to recreate a human HAND here. The exact details were everything, thankfully the father was here to help but even this specialist of anatomy could only guide her. Most of it was up to her memory, and it had taken some long nights and days to punch some of these thoughts into her mind. To really . . . improve her memory, make herself bother remembering. She'd really been working hard, it was why she kept putting off this moment. If she failed, no, she just couldn't fail. In practice it wouldn't do much, she could always try again later, the 'rejoining' of the tissue, veins, arteries, joints and muscle came last. Right now all she was doing was recreating her hand . . . on the skeletal remains of what once was her hand. The problem was in the morale. She 'knew' if she failed this it was just a step, but emotionally it would be the end for her. A final forfeiting of any ability she might have. Nymara claimed to dislike emotions and she was good at keeping them down most times but at critical moments like this? Such a failure would be catastrophic, but she'd practiced so hard on animal's and even a dead body that had been suspiciously left barely covered a few miles back. That was . . . something different, a kind of change in her brain. A shifting of morals. But he was dead, long dead and no-one was going to bury him. In the end Father Mathew even gave his blessing and when she finally figured out how to use the body as an offering, the first reluctant than eager dead man gave his permission, then helped Nymara convince the priest. After-all, getting back a man that looked freshly dead would be a boon to his wife. He even suggested she might bring him back from the dead but, besides Nymara being entirely ignorant of such forms, and the priest looking dubious about whether a full 'resurrection' was even possible, the brain tissue was far too far gone. At best Nymara could bring him back and he could sustain his sentience magically with Nymara's help. When he seemed ready to push Nymara to do this anyways, the priest stepped in and shewed the girl how to banish specters from connexion with her. The whole thing had left Nymara physically, mentally, emotionally and magically exhausted, but it was the beginning and here she was now. About to put what she had learned to practice. With a small sigh, she brought out a flask full of lard and animal meat. Slapping and rubbing it down on the skeleton. She'd need to change the consistency and strength of the meat, not even talking about the form but it was miles easier and less exhausting than creating new flesh out of almost nothing. With the priest whispering in her ear, Nymara began
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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 28, 2015 12:57:27 GMT
The night soon wore on, and Nymara was lost in a haze of effort and fatigue. She'd really never felt any kind of satisfaction at any work before, let alone tiring, meticulous and wearing work like this. Nymara wasn't prepared to say she was 'enjoying' this work but that was mainly because she was so lost in the miniature details that she couldn't even think about how she felt. Father Mathew's voice as a dull drowning in her ear, it rose and fell like the sea. Keeping her awake, putting her to sleep.
Suddenly Nymara stopped, she was in a perfect state of visualizing the tendons for the longest time. Knowing where to place them, what consistency to change the meat to, what essences of the world to change them to. Then she'd hit a point where it all stopped and suddenly she realized she was finished. The hand was a perfect replica of her own, it made her gasp in surprise. If she had been anything but a 'flesh-smith', a silver smith say; even a carpenter would have elicited an exclamation of what 'fine' work had been done. She pressed her delicate fingers against the veins in this hand, the flesh felt and moved as 'real' flesh would.
The soft whispering of Father Mathew was barely audible, and Nymara had to put up her hand, and stumble down to a sitting position. " Father, father no." Nymara was drawn past her point, and she could feel herself snapping. The major aspect was done, the hand could wait till morning, well, mid day; it was long into morning now, the sun was soon to rise. This constant connexion with 'the next' and her endless shifting of meat into flesh had done more than wear her down, her brain felt like it had been scooped out and frozen. She blinked with heavy eyelids, and soon found her left eyelid was being uncooperative. Essence drain, magical fatigue, she might have gotten away with mending a few bones and reworking a half rotting hoof back into a workable facsimile. But to totally recreate the flesh, tendons and the rest for her own hand was something else entirely.
Something she'd finish in the evening. Perhaps the priest looked disappointed but at this point Nymara really didn't care, so with a twitch of her nose she let loose the spell. Leaving the priest to be absorbed back into 'the next'. And with that Nymara fell into her bed-roll and forgot all about eating.
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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 29, 2015 13:34:10 GMT
When Nymara awoke she felt . . . stupid. Heavy brain, heavy mind. But when she gained enough conscious thought to notice the crow inching toward her exposed right hand, well, she felt stupid in action as well. With a show of arms and cawing, the bird was sent frantically to the sky and Nymara found that her hand was perfectly fine. Well, it would need some 'effort' and mainly magic to push out the gangrene that had already spread during the night but that was expected. Easy enough work after the long endless push she had to deal with last night. THAT, would be dealt with later though. With an exhausted grunt, Nymara managed to toss the hand into a bag and cover it with a tarp. She lay there over extended, playing with the tarp's fraying edges. Lazy swipes of her pinky, and gazing out at the still, cool, landscape made her hesitate for ten minutes, enjoying the languid warmth of her blanket. Eventually she managed to pull herself out of the morning haze and finally acknowledging that she was, indeed, hungry. It couldn't really be put off anymore, the uncomfortable cramping in her stomach warned her of future exhaustion if she kept ignoring it. So with a resigned sigh she dislodged herself from the blanket, allowing her brilliant hair to dance away into the sunlight. This only elicited another sigh. Her hair grew too fast, she couldn't cut it without it regrowing on her with surprising haste, and it only ever got in the way or warned others of her gender.
But all that was problems long pondered and dealt with, well, dealt with as much as was possible.
Food, water, tea. Then Nymara practiced some of the meditation techniques she'd begun to learn from her spiritual advisers. Well, spirit advisers really. Finally she was toying with her small earthen tea-cup, really her only 'major' possession, putting off the effort that was soon to be required. With a shake of her head, she declared it a 'wrong thought' and finally stood, moving over to remove her small sheaf of papers. They'd been . . . expensive, in truth they were parchment, that helped cut down the cost but they weren't cheap. Of course she'd used the money she'd earned mending the paper merchant's daughter's eye to buy it, but still. At least she had-had enough for ink and an interesting wooden quill.
With a sigh, Nymara shook her head and began transcribing what exactly she had done last night. The process, her sight, her emotions and what needed doing. It was all a little jumbled but it was for later and it helped keep her focused. And as always, she needed that focus.
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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 29, 2015 14:18:07 GMT
So time passed, work was done the trivialities of life dealt with and Nyms was beginning to feel awake, refreshed and ready to finish what she'd started. It was still a LITTLE early, as the light hadn't quite faded away yet, but really she was in the middle of nowhere. Trees were her guardians and friends and she was at least a mile from any path. Today would be a perfectly decent day to learn and complete her experiment. It did excite her a little, a feeling that made her smile and play with it like a bead of dew on one's finger. This giddiness didn't make much sense to her and she knew if she kept thinking on it she'd analyze the emotion out of existence, so, reluctantly she left it alone.
If Nyms didn't have something important to do, say: reattach a hand. She might have lingered longer than she did on the feeling, just 'feeling' it, but that would inevitably lead her to wondering on it and then even being sarcastic about it's existence. So it was time to call back Father Mathew.
Mathew was in a right aggitated state. For a spirit of timeless existence, he sure hadn't been patient when it came to the completion of this ritual. "For the love of progress, dear girl! What kept you waiting. I thought you must have been mauled by a bear. Or that you'd had a sudden case of diarrhea and were slowly fading over to our side. "
The sheer emotion of all this brought a sarcastic smile to Nymara's face, until the priest mentioned dying away by dysentery. Which bought a somewhat ambivalent expression to her face.
" Look, Mathew. I'm not here to talk about bleeding out through my stool. I need your help properly prepping the hand so I can reattach it. That is what you are so excited about right?" With that same sarcastic grin she pulled out the already greening hand. "What are you stalling for then. "
With a 'huff', which amused Nyms even more due to the sound not being made by breath, Matthew began to examine, then comment on the hand. Praising the detail and precision Nyms was able to reproduce and mentioning several small, but necessary, details that needed correcting.
In time all the minor tweaks were accomplished. Nymara could both see better and less today. No mindset ever being the same, nor was she in that working trance like last night. Even so, soon a few tendons were moved, slightly; the green eradicated and the hand was ready for rejoining. If father Mathews could skip or jump around in excitement he'd surely have done so. Instead he settled with a somewhat unsatisfying raising and lowering of altitude. So unsatisfying he gave a sigh and ceased almost immediately after commencing.
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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 29, 2015 18:45:59 GMT
That feeling of giddiness had returned, or perhaps empowered itself. It had flagged somewhat during her work on the fine details but here it was again. So much so that she turned and gave Father Mathew that rarest of things, a pure smile. Unadulterated by sarcasm or ulterior motive. The priest hadn't even noticed it, he was rallying her on, returning snarky comments to get her going. Then, he stopped, suddenly realizing what he'd witnessed for the first time. With a strange twitchy smile and strain visible even through his ethereal visage, it was clear he was trying not to say something. If anyone else was present they'd find it difficult to understand the priest's hesitation, a smile seemed the most natural and proper adornment for the nymph.
What these hypothetical viewers didn't realize is how badly Nymara took complements. Well, to say she took them 'badly' was to paint a contradictory picture, as most these ghostly viewers don't realize how much a praise felt like an insult to Nymara. She'd grown close to her idea of death, so much-so that to be declared 'good' at something in the land of the living, to be told that she should continue doing something like this with her life, there was no way more sure to surface all thoughts of death. Nymara had begun to think of motivation and inspiration in life as vulgar, or in her case: 'directly insulting'
Which left the priest in an awkward situation, and he'd learned to keep his praises minimal and to the point. In something like this, on her very appearance? No matter how minimal he was with his complements she'd hide away into herself. Eyes would go dark and she'd most likely return any question with replies that require the least amount of effort. So the father did his best to just be invisible, and of course Nymara was fine with ignoring him. Until she needed his help of course. " Okay father, really, I need your expertise here now. It's time for the rejoining. " With that Father Mathew pulled his mind away from working through Nymara's complicated set of barriers and set to assisting her. "Yes, yes. Alright now . . ." Father Mathew carefully explained the procedure necessary for weaving living and recreated 'not quite living yet' flesh and all that came with it. It involved a nexus of magical 'breakers' that would allow Nymara to open her veins and tendons to the inanimate flesh without risk of bleeding. This way she could make minute adjustments to muscles and blood flow without killing or causing immense pain to herself.
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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 30, 2015 6:28:33 GMT
Nymara could feel everything coming together, a dull kind of 'recognition from her, now, foreign hand. But almost right away she felt the complications and where segments didn't quite 'match up'. Almost instinctually she began making changes, which came with almost immediate repercussions and the priest shouting down at her.
Despite what 'felt' right to her, Nymara truly hadn't much experience in 'feeling' where things went in her body and her knowledge of anatomy certainly was NOT instinctual or innate, yet. Perhaps in the future, perhaps.
All she succeeded in doing was to make many minor errors that would need careful correction, and father Mathew's was quietly stating this. As 'passively' as he could.
The tip-toing around her made Nymara crook an eyebrow at the priest and give one of her sarcastic smiles. He was being over-cautious. Nothing he stated would amend the fact if she ruined the hand and needed to start over and no comment of his would change that fact should it come to pass. As long as he didn't compliment her they were fine. He could even declare what she 'need' do. She might even do it, depending.
The poor father was at his wits end. Despite how little Nymara shewed, every small word affected her in one way or another and it was reaching such a critical point that he really couldn't distract her emotions, she was amazing at ignoring them and with the meditative techniques passed down by that strange ascetic she'd even been able to overcome some of her 'shutting down' episodes, where she'd just completely give in to that depression that ruled her life. Eh, well, he'd never state it 'ruled' her life, not in front of Nyms anyways or to anyone that could ever possibly make comment about it to her
Soon they were both off that irritating conjunction of emotions and reason, and back onto the task. Her hand, with careful inspection and application, was slowly fitting into place, while keeping everything where it needed to be. She'd made it a little too . . . thick though. Every vein, muscle and tendon was just a little too big, and she had that hard task of eyeballing a match with her other hand, while still keeping the anatomy in-tact.
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Post by Galvin Roe on Oct 30, 2015 16:28:58 GMT
Then suddenly, it was done. Well, a silver 'band' of scar flesh was still present, running through the middle of her wrist, but despite Father Matthews comments, she decided to keep this memento. Nymara . . . liked it. Perhaps like was too strong of a word, but it was unique and a stepping stone of her first 'major' accomplishment in life. Somehow it felt wrong to wax out her hand to perfection and, besides, she could feel her hand was certainly not perfection. Maybe, maybe after she'd completely adjusted to her hand and made the inevitable 'minor' adjustments necessary to make the hand her own, she'd get rid of the ring. After she'd proven her art entirely.
Nymara gave a sad smile down at her hand, it had been decided. The moment that first initial declaration that she wouldn't get it, before she made the reasons. Honestly, most would think it WAS a band of silver, until they got close enough to feel the strange nerveless flesh. And yet it was perfectly symmetrical all the way around, the hand hadn't come off that way . . . but the 'disk' of magic that prevented blood loss had certainly made it seem like it had been a very odd accident.
With a sniff, she turned up to Father Mathews " I'm keeping it father. No, don't try to convince me otherwise. This hand will be something of a symbol and a . . . advertisement. " It certainly had entered her mind, a hand indicating a sign of peace and tranquility. If ever she made it back to civilization, and bothered to remember, she'd get the symbol embroidered on her robes and pack. 'Healer for hire', and people would soon know what the symbol meant.
Nymara nodded. "I'm keeping it father. "
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