Raising Halani
-=--=--=--=--=--=-<* Shrine to Vardama - Halls of Waiting *>-=--=--=--=--=--=- To a keen observer, it is obvious the temple's architect patterned the main hall after the traditional representation of the otherworldly Halls of Waiting, where the Queen of the Dead resides. Basalt columns line the left and right walls, with an altar dedicated to Vardama lying at the end. Between the columns, doors to other parts of the temple can be seen, and there is a spiral staircase in the back to the left leading both upward and downward. Within the hall itself, numerous benches are arranged in rows, enough to seat several dozen mourners and faithfuls. Many funerals take place here, regardless of the deceased's faith. -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-- Contents --=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Kerbasy A young priest, cheerful despite his somber garb. 0s 1d Whirlpool I am stinky! 0s 20h Halani Shortish, dusky skinned woman with almond shaped eyes 1m 1h -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--= Exits -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=- Out <O> -=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=--=-
Halani has the dusky skin and almond shaped eyes typical of the Hin. It's only a closer look which reveals the mixed pedigree; lighter coloured eyes, a slightly less delicate bone structure, slightly fuller lips to name a few. She is on the smaller side, with half of her dark hair done in a long braid reaching almost all of the way down her back. The rest of it tends to curl around her cheeks and jaw, framing her face when it isn't osbcuring it.
She is garbbed in loose fitting robes which have been dyed dark blue. The leggings are baggy, though they narrow down by her feet to be stuffed into soft, yet warm looking leather boots. The robes are sleeveless, revealing arms with well toned muscles and a few violet markings in the form of circles and swirls running down her forearms. A black sash, decorated with small bronze discs, is tied around her hips serving as a belt to keep the robes closed.
The robes along might have suggested an austere existance. This notion is dispelled by the several bracelets Halani wears on each wrist and the necklace of multi-coloured beads partially covering the vee of the neckline of her robes.
Two pairs of wooden handles attacked by small chains are tucked into her sash.
Having falling to an undead, Halani was deposited here in the Temple of Vardama with an eye towards her being raised. This is a good thing for her, and for everyone. With her having fallen to the undead, the Vardamans are naturally the first place to look for help.
"Heh." The lone sound comes from down the hall. Kerbasy wanders up from beyond the pillars, his hands behind his back, and his hair a little mussed. He carries a package under one arm, and when he reaches the altar, he pauses, makes the Sign of Triangles before approaching and then settling the package down on the floor.
The young woman is laid upon the altar, surrounded by candles. Brightly lit, they bring warm to the gloom and warm her body. She wears gray linen, the form of the Twilight and Inbetween, and the Temple remains silent save for the occasional flick or pop. Her cuts and bruises have been carefully repaired as much as the medicine of hands may make them. Soon, they'll be little more than a memory.
One hopes.
"Heh. Well, you're a sight. We patched you up as best we could, but you took a beatin'." He says. He looks at Halani as he speaks with her, as silent as she might be. And he drops down by the altar into a chair. Runs his fingers through his hair. "You may not be able t'hear me, Vardama-willin', or you might. Our books have never been quite clear on that." He pauses.
"...but see," he says. And Kerbasy leans forward, and begins to unpack the bundle he'd brought. "You're a hero. Heroes...they're different. It's an old story, I guess." And the quiet hall fills with the sound of medicinal herbs, jars, clinking as he unbinds them.
"When the gods ah...well. When things happen, you always need someone t'fix what goes wrong. These are heroes. An', well. With free will an' all, there's no telling what's goin' to happen. I mean--you stood off against a Pale Lord, as I understand it. You did it all on your own." He pauses there, awkwardly. Because Kerbasy's always awkward. And then he begins to annoint Halani's face, her hands, with the holy oils.
"I guess what I'm tryin' to say is...it's up to you," he says. And clears his throat. "In a minute, Halani, I'm about to talk to th' Lady," and his ears flush brightly as he says this. "And she'll talk with you. You're not goin' to remember any of this. I'm not. But..." His ears are so, SO red. He clears his throat. "It's up to you, remember."
The youthful priest anoints the woman's head, her arms. The Temple hall is silent, though, for the sound of it.
Gradually, though, the last ointment is applied, and the young Mourner falls back into his chair. He folds his hands in his lap, and then leans forward, bowing his head in meditation. His ears are pink with...anticipation? as he does. And after that...
...after that...the Temple darkens. The room begins to chill, gray forming overhead until the only warmth, the only light, is that around the warrioress. Around her? The candles flicker, grow bolder. And so does the music--a solemn, and softly playing harp that grows and gradually swells to fill the Bastalt halls.
Above the candles? A gray, shade-like shape forms. Its fingers are long and soft, its features gentle in repose. On seeing this, the Mourner stands. And, face flushed, reaches up...and begins to guide the gray shape back into Halani's form.
The process takes a while, done in silence to the Harp. And the young Mourner's fingers and form shake by the end of it. ...but, as each piece is guided downwards, as each piece of the shade-like form is guided into place, the form of Halani strengthens.
The wounds begin to close.
And just as slowly, the warm, healthful glow of Life begins to refill, and blossom along her cheeks.
<OOC> Kerbasy just cast the raise dead and restorations. ...I'll be fading out here so you guys can do your thing. ':3
Even as colour gradually returns to Halani's cheeks, as her chest rises once... faltingly, at first. But then a second, a third... even after her breathing becomes regular, she begins to move. Not the movement of one waking up after a restful sleep, but rather the small twitches, almost frantic little energies of one caught in a nightmare. A face that wants to grimace but can't quite make the right muscle movements, fingers that want to clench into fists but seem to have forgotten how. Clearly life has been returned, but wakefullness has not been returned with it. Yet.
The music of the Harp moves through the temple with an otherworldly life of its own. Smooth, singular in purpose, it brushes against the ear of the listener, offering comfort, a respite from melancholy. The Mourner stirs as Halani does, and looks up with a shy grin. And seeing she's moving, she really /is/ moving, he straightens abruptly, and stands. ...and begins to see to the last minute details. Straightening her sleeve. Adjusting the pillow below her head.
He moves quickly, his own form full of Life. And as he does, and as Halani stirs, the candles too, flare. Life, Life...Life.
The music of the Harp fills the vaulted hauls. Singular in purpose, it offers comfort to the listener, though in its own and otherworldly way. It echoes off the pillars, the walls, and seems to surround the warrior-woman who lies on the altar.
Surrounded by candles, warmth suffuses her. The candles blaze brightly in the midst of the temple's chill, echoing, Life, Life, Life!
Near her, the Mourner Kerbasy sits. Alternately standing and sitting, to adjust her sleeve, a bit of candle, to make sure the last minute events are in order...as Halani wakes. Which she seems to be doing.
Halani's fists finally do form, though they seem lost... with nothing to do. Until finally they smash down on the altar, at the same time as the monk's lungs filling suddenly and completely with air. A gasp, an almost painful sounding one, and the young woman's back arches and her eyes snap open. Followed immediately by a series of coughs... it has been some amount of time since those lungs were used, after all.
Craft watches the entire proceeding with interest, a silent, motionless sentinel in the house of the Goddess. His customary weapons are left behind, but the ever-present apron still adorns his form, marking him of Reos, in practice if not in faith. He does not move until Halani begins to move with the purpose of thought, not the strange and alien reflexes of life. He begins to step over, and offers the woman a hand to aid her from the altar.
"... and you couldn't even wait for me to get here?" Jinks feigns offense as he strolls finally into the room, his coat slung over his shoulder and his fine shirt only half tucked-in to his pants. He glances around at those assembled and sniffs, licking the tip of his thumb and wiping at some wine staining his poor goatee -- you only notice these things when you walk past mirrors in halls. How embarassing! "Is she a shambling corpse now? Like the black elf? They could start a guildhouse and buy linen wrappings in bulk."
Halani thumps on the altar again, and then her hand is enveloped by the metal one of Craft's... and then the harp music and Jinks's sidelong comments slowly start to sink in. They help, surely, in Halani's mind dealing with the jarring experience it's just been through... helping her mind shunt away memories she isn't supposed to have, memories that could never be kept by the living. Fading until there's nothing but the memory of the gun and seeing the explosion from the barrel and then nothing. And yet, even with the memories gone, and even with the bodily hurts and wounds healed... a tight pain remains in the woman's chest, and she groans. Crying, even, without knowing why.
Craft freezes up again at the tears, his tridactyl hand still gripping hers. After a moment he squeezes gently, unsure what else to do. The voice that comes from his immobile face is soft, nearly human, but like a human voice through a tin can and a string. "You're returned," he says, simply, holding back the questions he'd hoped to ask.
Halani pries her eyes open long enough to look up at Craft's face. Or lack of face. And it isn't clear if there's recognition or not. The gaze lingers not even a pair of seconds before the eyes press closed again, and, heedless of the audience or lack thereof, the young woman just cries. And could be at it a while.