The Sunspire he held my hands above my head and i commenced to pray

@Praimfaya - for harbinger threads, lmk which it is you need currently

riley had not moved much in the days that followed. the rain had never let up, and neither had the nagging pain in his hindquarters the cut had transformed from clean and fresh and open, to raw and crusted and oozing. he knew he was poorly off, but orlaith was long gone and he felt a strange mental barrier about calling for esme.

he sat under an overhang, the very same one orlaith had visited -- part of him wished the phoenix would return and end the ennui that was his entrapment of his own making, but part of him was fine with the isolation. he had lived most of his life alone, and the following weeks would be no different.. only, riley was losing weight and gradually becoming more and more ataxic -- a grim sign his cuts were getting worse and not better.

hmm, i don't know for sure sooo i'm ok with any kind!

though it shouldn't necessarily surprise praimfaya to come across a saint wolf outside of it's borders; she feels a slight swell of it nonetheless as she comes across one that harbors donovan's scent. mixed as it was with a scent that, though, implacable to her, spells 'unwell'. her pace slows, with her sweep of the canyon from high up complete she has no pressing place to be; and she lets out a low chuff to her brown cloaked packmate. he doesn't particularly strike anything in her that strikes her as familiar except for perhaps his scent. praimfaya doesn't think she's seen his face before and if she has even in passing, she has likely been consumed by her own plights to take much notice.

a mistake; as a warrior she knows.

you look like shit. is how praimfaya chooses to make her first impression upon her fellow saint; though her tone is teasing there is a grim undertone to her frown as it begins to tug the corners of her lips downwards. for a moment; blinding and terrifying with how it comes back in full force, praimfaya is reminded of dacio. how he, too, looked like this shortly before his passing. a riot of panic swells beneath her breast, begging her heart to beat rapidly within it's prison of flesh and bone.

a breath is taken in an attempt to fight back those waves of unwelcome memories, of unwelcome fear.

seriously though. has anyone been checking out your wounds?

hopeful the wolf that crested the ride might not be a stranger, Riley's expression flattened as he realized he did not recognize the she-wolf. she was of powerful make, not unlike him -- while scars adorned her shoulder and hide, there was a lurking feral undertone that had him instinctively on edge. 

her statement prompted a slow blink from the yearling, who thus far had never given an ounce of thought or concern about appearances. much too low in energy to offer a biting comeback, Riley regarded the woman that wore Donovan's scent like a perfume. thinking of Dove, now seemed the perfect opportunity to use one of those words Orlaith had taught him. no one has been here. you one of Donovan's sluts?

no one has been here.

concerning, that. her mouth parts to ask if she can take a look — she's no medic but she knows a couple of basic things; it seemed imperative that a warrior know how to stave off infection at the very least until they can get to someone more skilled — but before she can even utter the so much as a word; his followup startles her to silence.

praimfaya's words are lost as she stares at him, a bit like a gaping fish. slut? the term rankles her, and the implication that is donovan's plaything burrows like an annoyance deep in the marrow of her bones. she draws back, chin lifting imperiously as she stares him down; momentarily setting aside concern for his wounds.

was that what drew the others to donovan? his sexual prowess? praimfaya ponders it, troubled as she composes herself. i am no slut, praimfaya spits the word at him; insulted. and i may run with the saints but I am not donovan's. she belonged to herself, she belonged to her people, to the spirits of the commander's past ...but she sure as hell didn't belong to the man she wanted to bring down from the inside; and as praimfaya couldn't say that she leaves her conviction and roughly emphasized words to hang between them.

a breath and then another. my name is praimfaya. i am a blade of the saints. she introduces herself offering all she has: name; rank. now let me see your wounds. while she might've been of a mind to ask earlier, the quiet command imposes itself in the air between them; an expectation in the wake of insult he gave her moments ago.

As it turns out, most women don’t like that term. Riley was startled himself as he watched Praimfaya’s expression go from concern to umbrage, a rankled aura seeping out of her like rippling fire.

Noted. He blinked and retracted slightly, burnt by the heat of her reply. Riley’s assumptions about Donovan were misguided anyway, but he was a far ways away from discovering that himself.

He didn’t much care for being told what to do, but his cheeks were still flushed scarlet by Praimfaya’s thunderclap outrage, and so, meekly he shifted his hip towards her — a dour expression worn on his face as he awaited her report.

for what it is worth, praimfaya's annoyance abates just as quickly as it rose; the sting of insult salved over with the invisible balm of his wounds as she drifts nearer to study them. frostbound gaze studies the lacerations: on his flank, on his hip. they are ugly ( not that she's one to talk about ugly wounds ) and left untended. praimfaya's frown deepens. her first instinct is to place his wounded hip and flank in saltwater but as they are in the middle of the mountains that is not an option. she tries very hard to keep the slight tremble out of her legs that threatens as she keeps drawing the line between this man's injuries and dacio's.

she might not even know the the saints' name before her but that doesn't mean she wants to watch him die. an ironic twist since she made a living out of killing.

it should've been treated much sooner, praimfaya starts with, leveling a stare at him. i'm no medic so i can't promise that the damage is entirely irreversible, at this point she was merely going off of logical deduction. i saw some yarrow a little ways away, she gestures in the direction. i'm going to go collect some. i'll be right back. despite that she thinks he isn't going anywhere, her words still carry that 'don't move' warning tone anyway.

it doesn't take praimfaya long to find the yellow flowered yarrow and she collects a bunch betwixt her jaw, likely much more than she'll need. she makes her way back to where she's left her pack mate with haste and sets the crushed collection of yarrow upon a nearby rock, nudging thru the broken stems as she tries to recollect what stryx and sugar glider had done to dress her wounds; wishing all the while they were here.

i'm going to chew these into a paste and spread them on your wounds. she announces, gathering a good bit into her mouth to begin the process. yarrow, as it turns out, doesn't taste good and the pollen saturates her tongue as she works it into a paste, drawing nearer and, if he allows, tentatively and as gingerly as praimfaya can, spreading the yarrow paste upon his wounds. her work is messy, clearly lacking the refined precision of someone with experience dressing wounds ...but as long as it was effective she didn't much care.

Riley looked away while Praimfaya inspected him, a scowl dark enough to match the stormy horizon on his brow. He missed how the warrior seemed overcome with slight anxiety; his focus was elsewhere.

Irreversible. Yarrow. Something, something said -- but one thing abundantly clear: stay here.

Riley shrugged (while silent, he seemed obedient) and the woman was off; a silvery ghost among the downpour.

When she returned, she announced her intentions and began to chew the plants to a pulp between her jaws. Riley could smell the sluice and winced -- his gaze traveled up Praimfaya's throat, to her scars, to the sluice held in her mouth. "Will it sting?"

will it sting?

praimfaya is silent for a moment as she methodically chews the yarrow flowers into some sort of suitable paste. she doesn't remember if the yarrow or any of the other things stryx and sugar glider applied to her wounds stung; nearing the door of death itself as she was. she had come frighteningly close to yu gonplei ste odon; an embarrassment in hindsight to surviving the whole conclave of four wolves that had been trying to kill her without such severe injuries.

the reminder prickles beneath her skin; a reminder of why she was a blade of the saints at all.

i don't know. praimfaya admits after a soft sigh pushes itself from betwixt her lips. but it can't hurt any worse than it did receiving those wounds. if that was any consolation to him. it seemed a little funny, now, as she thinks about it, that he was worried about it stinging. and if it does sting then i'm going to assume that means its doing its job. she offers a lofty shrug of her shoulders.

It wasn't much of an answer, but Riley didn't have much of a say in the matter either. He set his jaw, teeth clenched -- waiting for the paste to dribble into the angry entrance of his wounds.

He was lucky then Praimfaya was here, even if he was unaware. Even if he did not know her motives. He was suspicious of wolves, but not in that way -- it certainly never occurred to him that she could be chewing something that could make his injuries worse.

"Go on then," The yearling grunted, bracing for the sting. Surely she was right -- it couldn't hurt any worse than acquiring the injury in the first place.

go on then, her packmate grunts. praimfaya watches as his muscles tense beneath his earthen brown pelage; pulling taunt with what she can only assume is an attempt to brace himself for the pain that may or may not come. his words inspire in her mind a more morbid scenario. it sounds like words before an accepted death rather than the slather of medicines upon a wound. she smirks softly to herself, trying to hide the grimace that follows shortly after.

it does not escape her notice that trying to heal riley seems like a contradiction to her entire reason for joining the saints. it seems counterproductive and yet, she slathers the salve upon his wound anyway.

it's messy, as predicted; the act of dressing a wound striking her as intimate in a way that makes her want to recoil back. as a non-medic, she doesn't see things unbiasedly. she is not desensitized. she smears it as evenly over his wound as she can with the tip of her nose; recoiling back slightly to peer at her handiwork. there, praimfaya announces after it's finished. see? that wasn't so bad. she teases.

This was the first time since Esme that someone has touched him.

Almost immediately Riley shifted uncomfortably, bringing his hip and stifle forward -- forward over what he was afraid was something he could not allow Praimfaya to see.

He felt the same discomfort, but for very different reasons. When Praimfaya pulled away Riley jerked his hips to the side with a wince, tail pulling across his legs. He kept thinking of Esme more than the sting of poultice in his wound -- of his failings and Esme, how she had ...

That thought was buried under an avalanche of other thoughts. His eyes were closed as Praimfaya spoke, one opening to regard the 'healer' with a new sense of wariness.

"Why did you help?" Riley didn't think it was just because she was a Saint -- he had been gone for over a month now, and his allegiance was stronger to this rock than the pack that had accepted him. "You could have killed me."

praimfaya turns from him, for a moment, fussing with the leftover yarrow, having gotten much more than she actually needed. in truth, she isn't sure what to do with it. let it here for him ...if he planned to stay here? or take it to their healer? she only turns back around to face riley, her indecision on what to do with the excess yarrow quickly tucked aside in favor of the words he speaks. rather, the question he asks. you could've killed me.

i could've, praimfaya admits. it wouldn't be her first time taking a life. as if in agreement, she feels a phantom pain in her four kill marks. praimfaya was a warring of extremes: diplomatic and kind ...but also very easily draconian and ruthless. two opposing sides that somehow, in some way, balance one another out

but two strangers once saved my life. they had no allegiance to me or to the pack i ran with at the time, praimfaya pauses. they could've said killing me was a mercy. i was already at death's doorstep. but they didn't. and maybe the part of praimfaya that was kind and diplomatic just wanted to return that karma in some way. even the commander of death can save lives, sometimes.

praimfaya offers him a soft smile. so... what happened? how did this wound happen? how come no one came to look for you? she asks, for she automatically assumes donovan sent no one to find him; putting together the pieces of his flirtations and petnames for her — barely suppressing the shudder of quiet revulsion at the thought — and her packmate's question of being 'one of donovan's sluts' that their grandmaster was more worried about his next bedroom conquest then actually running his pack and looking out for his members.

Riley wasn't unsettled by Praimfaya's admission - it would have been easy to dispatch him. It took effort to heal. 

He listened with a keen ear to the warrior-healer's (such a duality!) recount of how her own life had been saved. Riley assumed that kind of debt was not easily forgotten or erased. Strange how life worked -- those foreign wolves were now responsible for him too. If they had not existed and saved Praimfaya who knows if Riley's life would have been forfeit. It was overwhelming thinking of how much of life and its interactions were like an immense body of water, not a river -- one single motion set off a constellation of reactions beyond mortal control. 

He didn't understand one thing, though -- why did she call herself commander of death? The question lingered on the roof of his mouth. First, to answer her own questions. I was attacked by the wolves over in that soggy meadow. With the droopy trees. They said I was on their land -- Riley's eyes flashed, for he disagreed vehemently with their assessment, as it had been unclaimed at the time. I pissed on one of their trees, and they attacked. That was -- Riley counted back slowly -- Almost two months ago. Dunno if Donovan has sent anyone. I haven't seen him since he publicly humiliated me in front of the court. He can fuck off, just like those idiot 'fairies' in the trees.

praimfaya listens with rapt attention as he recounts how he received his wounds; sounding eerily like her first encounter with the saints ...where nemisis and her had very nearly fought to their deaths. her lips pinch into a terse, contemplative line, tasting the yarrow all over again. it's an unpleasant taste ...or maybe perhaps she only finds it unpleasant because she doesn't really like flowers despite their proved usefulness. it tastes like pollen that feels like it's sticking to the back of her throat and coating her tongue.

he doesn't specific that the territory was unclaimed but praimfaya assumes as much, figuring that no wolf would be dense enough to trespass and then pee on a tree. that was just plain suicidal.

she blinks, doelike, as he tells her that it was two months ago. two months. for a moment, praimfaya struggles to wrap her mind around that; two months. you've been out here for two months? her voice rises, shimmering with outrage meant for their so-called grandmaster; solidifying what she always knew: she needed to take him down too.

right or wrong, praimfaya had a strong idea of what kind of leader she was, and thusly, what she expected in her leaders if she couldn't claim leadership for herself. leaving a member alone for two months: no search party, nothing ...was wrong. it sits ugly and festering in her chest; and then to hear that he publicly humiliated the injured male in front of her only adds venom to the wound. i'm sorry, she says, bowing her head. it is not her amend to make but as a "saint" she feels obligated to all the same.

no leader should let their injured packmate, especially not for two months and they certainly shouldn't humiliate them in front of another pack. her lip curls. it's piss poor leadership. but she suspected as much, hadn't she? seen it first hand. leaders are supposed to be the voice, the bastion of their pack. they look out for their kru first and foremost.

good words coming from the commander who'd left opalia ...but she'd learned from that. she was working on making amends and that had to mean more than her own mistakes. ...mistakes made as a child. she wasn't perfect but she was trying. donovan, she suspects, isn't even trying; and if he is it's only to see how many of his followers he could bed. what donovan and the saints did to you was wrong.

Riley shrugged. Praimfaya might have found the treatment he endured went against her impression of how a leader should behave, but Riley was used to it. When he disappeared from Easthollow Valette and Greyback hadn't chased him down either. Why would Donovan be any different?

Of course Riley had no way of knowing if it was true Donovan hadn't looked for him -- just like he had no way of knowing if Valette, Greyback, or Laurel had. They'd never found him, so as far as he was concerned they didn't care. 

Juvenile as that thought was, Riley had stayed alive all this time and was beholden to none. Praimfaya's genuinity wasn't lost on him, but Riley didn't know how to respond to it. No one cared about him, least of all strangers. Why would she be different?

Ever so slightly uncomfortable, Riley tried to fan out the fires he saw simmering in Praimfaya's gaze. I wasn't there for very long anyway. I've been on my own a while before that. So maybe it's better like this. It's what I'm used to anyway. He gave another indifferent shrug, his lopsided gaze sliding to Praimfaya. Why do you call yourself commander of death? What does it mean?

praimfaya's passionate words do not seem to faze him; understandably, she thinks. she will not lobby for the saints. not when she knows they do not deserve anyone on their side sticking up for them, not when she seeks to destroy them. she studies him then, frostbound gaze assessing. it sounds like he doesn't intend to return and he was quite clear on where he stood with donovan ...but she could make a snap decision here and now. renard already knew, or at the very least strongly suspected. praimfaya is loathe to trust her secret with too many. for now, she controls the whispers and she'd like to keep it that way.

in the end, she doesn't. she holds her secrets close to her chest, offering him a small, apologetic smile. it wasn't fair he's been treated like that, but she understands and she lets him alone. though helping to spy on them might be the sweetest of revenges she might also be the only one who feels that way.

when the question comes about her title, she shifts trying to think about how to explain it without launching into an unasked for life story. it's what wanheda translates to. it is what my people, my kru call me. i'm the commander of a coalition of packs just outside of these wilds. she offers in explanation, trying to keep it as simple as she could. though 'simple' wasn't really the word for her unique position.

Riley missed the poignant moment that could have been shared between them; if Praimfaya ended up spilling the beans, would he truly be the best ally to endow that information with? Riley was largely selfish -- motivated by his own needs. He wasn't a snitch, but Praimfaya would likely find his allegiance fickle and flimsy.

Commander of death, wanheda. Foreign concepts to Riley, as was a coalition outside of the valley. He mistrusts it instantly -- not that Praimfaya is lying, but that things could stay shipshape while you were gone. "How do you know what your kru calls you when you are not there?" Riley questioned, finding the suggestion that a network allegiance existed harmoniously doubtful. Weren't all wolves just as selfish as him? Why would anyone pledge allegiance to an absent leader?

Of course, there were subleties to Praimfaya's creed that were entirely lost to Riley. He had never known undying loyalty, so how could he look at Praimfaya's dogma with anything but skepticism?

riley’s question is valid but priamfaya struggles between how much she wishes to divulge about her culture — despite that it thinly and barely exists here — and whether she can explain it in a way that makes sense. it is, how it is; is what she desires to say. not just anyone can be the commander. it’s a birthright. and it’s been the way of my people for generations. the explanation she offers is vague. to disobey or an attempt to usurp the commander’s word as law is death.

it is harsh but it is how we survive.

anyway, praimfaya tries to shift the conversation to something else. i should be getting back before i’m missed. praimfaya draws with a sigh that feels heavy. she is reluctant to return though, thus far, her espionage has gone over smoothly.

In Praimfaya a door clicked shut: Riley witnessed the spectacle in silence, confused.

He did not profess to understand, and Praimfaya did not oblige him by much more in the way of explanation. He was owed nothing anyway, but her further divulgence (kept vague, understandably) only served to prompt more budding questions at the tip of his tongue.

He did not press, for Praimfaya was already directly the topic gently away by the time he managed to string his thoughts into a coherent sentence. Such was the way of the world -- it moved at a much faster pace than he was comfortable with. He crossed his forelimbs resignedly, accepting of Praimfaya's heavy sigh and suggestion she ought to leave.

For a time it seemed he would say nothing -- but then, Riley managed a belated word: "Praimfaya?" He looked at the warrior (and for a moment was overwhelmed by the sheer magnificence of her strong features, and battle-worn aura) -- he had no business telling her what to do, and his tone softened in response. "Please don't tell them I was here."

praimfaya turned to make her exit, not wanting to entice suspicion upon the saint wolves. not that she thought anyone paid her that much attention. a pause is given as she hears her name, called out from the lips of the male she just …maybe not saved but at least helped. she peers at him over her shoulder, attentive, the unspoken question of yes in the tilt of her scarred muzzle; her mission to return to the canyon paused as she waits. he tells her not to tell them that he was here. she considers saying that if he’s been missing for as long as he has been and hadn’t been found that likely, donovan didn’t care. they’d established as much, hadn’t they? of course this meant she couldn’t confront donovan about riley but there would be other and bigger concerns. i won’t. praimfaya promises after a moment. she offers a twitch of a smile. be safe. she offers as parting words before she takes her leave.

thank you for the thread!! <3

There's a span of time where Riley was holding his breath, waiting for Praimfaya's response. When she turned around and regarded him with her ice-laden gaze, Riley saw a figment of truth there: I wont, she promised -- and that was enough for the yearling.

"Good bye," Riley called after her, feeling loneliness creep in. It occurred to him too late he had forgotten to thank her - fuck -- "THANK YOU," He called after, listening to the echo of his voice as it bounded down the mountain.

Praimfaya's administration of medicine had been crude, but in the days that followed, Riley would be very grateful for her.