The peace that formerly reigned in Terra Nova has eroded, now little more than a memory. War ravages the continent. Disputes divide kingdoms; ideals divide families. The quest for power consumes absolutely and indiscriminately. None are immune to its allure.
Who will rise and who will fall? Only time—and ambition—will tell.
New gifted family of Lorendale added to the Families of Importance, the Decarlos!
At the beginning of February 2022 the site will experience a 5 year time jump! The IC year will jump from 822 to 827! This gives us about 8 months to prepare our characters for that jump. We plan to host very intentional planning sessions to help everyone get their plots and characters ready for this! As of this moment, one thing you should all start considering is making sure the threads your characters are in are furthering your character's stories.
"Yes, it is different," agreed Etta, her tone even and her expression unperturbed. "My blades are clean, and they are helpful, and what I do is most certainly not a sport." She wasn't about to burst into tears and take things too personally when people were sick or hurting, but there was a point at which belittling attitudes towards her work were not to be coddled nor excused, and Garrick had just danced past it.
She was on the point of pouring the hot water into the powdered bark, but she settled the lid back onto the heavy iron pot of water simmering over the embers of the fire and turned to face him with her hands on her hips.
"If you're uncomfortable continuing with this treatment, I really do have other things I could be doing with my time," she told him. "There are more wounds that need my attention than yours, and people who actually want it."
Like the sudden cracking of lightning across the sky, the previously patient and even humor-filled healer turned sour. Garrick visibly leaned away at her suddenly dismissive words. Only a moment ago she was insisting on treating him, and now she was dismissing him. This was one of the reasons, among others, that Garrick didn't go to healers. Letting another tend his wounds was a vulnerable action for the man, and having her communicate her worth--and, assumedly, his lack--was just the slap he needed.
"Please," he said, not looking at her, wiping the last of what came from the wound and moving to set the cloth on the table, because if he took it he could see her accusing him of theft, "don't waste any more of yourself on me." It was both mutually dismissive and sincere. A healer who coveted her time certainly wasn't the kind of Dresmondi to occupy Garrick's. If she'd wanted something from this exchange--excessive gratitude, perhaps--then she would have been sorely disappointed. Better to end things now and save her time. More plants needed crushing, no doubt.
Without further ado, Garrick would carry himself away from Etta and her knives, poultices, and importance.
Of course she immediately felt like an utter brute when he visibly recoiled at her words. And yet...she was only human. She had her pride. She had her frayed nerves that could only carry her so far with difficult patients. It was always hard to tell how far to push, and if she'd pushed too far.
"I want to help you, Garrick, and I can," she said quietly. "But if this is something you don't want..." She cast a look over at the crocodile and sighed heavily, tired and frustrated. "I am not going to be the villain who forced you. You're a grown man. It's your choice."
And it was going to drive her nuts to know the abscess was going untreated, but that was her problem.
Men were often stereotyped as emotionless brutes who didn't feel pain and didn't get hurt; as much as Garrick might have reached for that stereotype, it wasn't him. He felt pain, and he didn't like it. He didn't like being hurt by those he trusted, not even for his own good. Additionally, as much as he liked to pretend her words hadn't cut him, they had. Garrick didn't like to bleed in front of others.
"You've already helped me, Etta. Thank you." He said quickly, still determined to leave, eyes still avoiding hers as he moved to escape.
Etta lifted her hand, but knew she couldn't stop him if he'd made up his mind. She'd pushed her luck, and lost, this time. She'd said she wouldn't force him and she guessed that included allowing him the dignity of not arguing with him any further. She had had her chance to make her case and failed to do so in a convincing manner. She didn't have to like it, but she did have to accept it.
Her hand dropped back to her side in a helpless movement.
"...if you can flush the area regularly with salt-water..." she suggested weakly as he moved to go. It would be better than nothing, but it was in his hands, now.
Garrick's issues weren't Etta's, though she was a kind enough soul to attempt to make them so. The Dresmondi had childhood trauma that he let govern his adult life, and erred on the side of immature emotional reactions rather than patient, thoughtful solutions. He couldn't bring himself to look towards her again, but he did, because leaving was easy. Later, alone, while cringing over the flushing water Argos treated him with, Garrick would think back on his exchange with Etta and feel regret.