- Invitation Status
- Looking for partners
- Posting Speed
- 1-3 posts per week
- One post per week
- Slow As Molasses
- Online Availability
- Weekends
- Writing Levels
- Advanced
- Prestige
- Adaptable
- Preferred Character Gender
- Male
- Female
- Genres
- Fantasy (medieval or modern), sci-fi, steampunk, genres involving dragons
None of the bandits sit well with her, but she deals with their jabs in silence. How can she interrupt Arean's words of protection against the attacks she hears? Illness or not, Arean still has the heart of an honorable knight, even if he bears no armor or weapons. She eats in utter silence, if her picking at food could be called eating. She's grateful when Arean chooses to leave, and it sets them on the path to recovery.
After a week passes, Zaira notices incredible changes coming from Arean. He's able to combat the sickness with his growing strength, and he begins to eat more. He interacts with the world far more than he had been, and there is a new found power in his arms as he holds her tight each night. She helps him with everything, even if it means forcing medicine down his throat with subtle (or not so subtle) advances, or threats. A temporary caretaker she may be for him, but she's not above spewing threats should he deny her advances.
His voice jars her from her thoughts, and her shirt is halfway up her waist when she pauses. "I... don't know," she answers, unable to give a real response to the question. She wants to leave as soon as possible, something Arean knows, but she cannot help him recover if they travel. That only worked once, and she hadn't really helped so much as dragged him to Cerin. "We need to make sure you're completely better. I can't have you weakening on the road." She pauses again to pull her shirt over her head. Only one candle lights the tent in a dim glow, and Zaira's almost positive that Arean's eyesight is still recovering, so she doesn't need to worry about him seeing something he shouldn't. Her right side is turned toward the light, and she can easily make out her own scars. The dragon's claws left five marks on her: three long, horizontal scars around her arm, one on the side of her waist, and the last grazing her hip. Only a few splotches of lightly burned skin remain, as the dragon's fire never completely reached her. The main burn rests on her left palm, a reminder that magic should never touch the hands of those who cannot wield it. No bruises mar her torso as they had before, and the small scratches lining her face are nothing more than white specks on her cheek.
"Besides, we don't even know where he's going. We know him, so we know that he doesn't give any hints about his real plans," she continues, digging through one of her bags to find another suitable shirt. She has long since moved her things into Arean's tent, despite the grumblings of the bandits who saw her. She's made it clear to everyone that she is Arean's caretaker and no one else. The message goes to even Dessan, someone who she has seen little of. For her sake, Zaira thinks, it's likely better.
"When he was... hurting you," she tries not to focus on the image, "he never said anything about what he wanted to do, right?" She finally finds the dark, long sleeved shirt she was searching for. The bandits don't know of her scars, even though she's expressed her participation in the fight against the dragon. They all seem to believe Arean won in a duel with the beast with no outside help, and she has given up convincing them. Zaira throws the shirt over her head, shifting the sleeves so they fall correctly.
After a week passes, Zaira notices incredible changes coming from Arean. He's able to combat the sickness with his growing strength, and he begins to eat more. He interacts with the world far more than he had been, and there is a new found power in his arms as he holds her tight each night. She helps him with everything, even if it means forcing medicine down his throat with subtle (or not so subtle) advances, or threats. A temporary caretaker she may be for him, but she's not above spewing threats should he deny her advances.
His voice jars her from her thoughts, and her shirt is halfway up her waist when she pauses. "I... don't know," she answers, unable to give a real response to the question. She wants to leave as soon as possible, something Arean knows, but she cannot help him recover if they travel. That only worked once, and she hadn't really helped so much as dragged him to Cerin. "We need to make sure you're completely better. I can't have you weakening on the road." She pauses again to pull her shirt over her head. Only one candle lights the tent in a dim glow, and Zaira's almost positive that Arean's eyesight is still recovering, so she doesn't need to worry about him seeing something he shouldn't. Her right side is turned toward the light, and she can easily make out her own scars. The dragon's claws left five marks on her: three long, horizontal scars around her arm, one on the side of her waist, and the last grazing her hip. Only a few splotches of lightly burned skin remain, as the dragon's fire never completely reached her. The main burn rests on her left palm, a reminder that magic should never touch the hands of those who cannot wield it. No bruises mar her torso as they had before, and the small scratches lining her face are nothing more than white specks on her cheek.
"Besides, we don't even know where he's going. We know him, so we know that he doesn't give any hints about his real plans," she continues, digging through one of her bags to find another suitable shirt. She has long since moved her things into Arean's tent, despite the grumblings of the bandits who saw her. She's made it clear to everyone that she is Arean's caretaker and no one else. The message goes to even Dessan, someone who she has seen little of. For her sake, Zaira thinks, it's likely better.
"When he was... hurting you," she tries not to focus on the image, "he never said anything about what he wanted to do, right?" She finally finds the dark, long sleeved shirt she was searching for. The bandits don't know of her scars, even though she's expressed her participation in the fight against the dragon. They all seem to believe Arean won in a duel with the beast with no outside help, and she has given up convincing them. Zaira throws the shirt over her head, shifting the sleeves so they fall correctly.