#the way that theres zeo indication of who this is from

[endfght]

a festering ache, the weeping cost of heroism; or so syrathnar had come to believe. bruised eye a badge of honor, a bloodied lip proof of your courage. thus was the price befitting the name: the savior of baldur's gate. shame accompanies the thought, an unworthiness that coursed through the very veins so destined for greatness from consummation. blood from blood, created in his image ⸻ His Chosen; meant to bathe the streets of baldur's gate in blood and ash, not claw them free from the clutches of ruin.

jaw clenches so tight her teeth throb with a certain soreness, one hand with a white-knuckled grip on the wooden chair beneath her, the other pressing a well bled-through scrap of cloth against the seeping wound on her bicep. there was a time where she'd have reveled in this, blood spilled a never-ending offering to her father, her own or another's, death did not discriminate. but weeks of battling urges, fighting the darkness that threatened to consume her wholly, would not be so easily undone with flashes of memories of a long ago life led by a stranger.

let me see the wound.

where once she would bark ⸺ snarl and bare sharp teeth, she has learned softness; she welcomes @gruvies' aid with wide eyes and a relieved sigh. blood smeared from the laceration up and down her arm, flowing down her fingers in a slow yet never-ending drip drip drip. ❝ the mess makes it seem worse than it truly is⸻ ❞ but words spoken through a wince and the paleness of her lips begs to differ otherwise. she fights drowsiness, heavy lids drooping, limbs like lead weights with every move that she makes. poison that coated the blade settles slowly into her bloodstream, a benefit that finds syrathnar grateful that the arrow did not pierce her skin, but merely grazed it. barely more than a scratch, still ― the mind-numbing burn made it seem as though acid were sizzling away the upper half of her arm. she sucks in a deep breath, expression evening to something more neutral, a wavering attempt at stoicism: a grin raises the corner of her mouth, twinkles the faintest glow in her eye, ❝ it's not going to kill me, if that's what you're so worried about. ❞