Aban's Gift

edited June 2020 in Roleplay Logs
This is from 6+ months ago but I have come to really enjoy the following interaction. There is some mild cursing involved.

Brief backstory:
Stine made a deal with Chakrasul and his eye was the price paid. We find Stine in a shop in Enorian attempting to purchase an eye patch.

He is a powerful Azudim of Human heritage with a figure built over years of hard labour and a dark golden tan to show for it. The jet-black hair atop the head has been shaved down almost to the scalp, leaving barely half an inch of it to remain. Similarly, his face has been freshly shaved and looks quite smoothe at the moment with a lack of stubble. Curling up from just above the hairline on either side is a pair of twin black horns akin to those of an antelope, spiralling around an invisible center three times before ending at sharp points, adding to his already tall height that reaches six feet and a few inches. One vivid sea-green eye takes in the world from just above the sharp, flattened and scarred nose. Where his left eye would be, instead there is nothing but a scarred, empty eyesocket. The dark golden tan stretches across all of his visible flesh, including lines of solid muscle in his frame and scarred skin alike.

(around the right wrist) : a heavy length of anaxagorite chain
(around the uniform's waist) : a simple, thick belt of cloth and leather
(tightened snugly on the right wrist) : an entwined, crossed-paths bracelet
(inked all along the right arm) : an intricate chain tattoo
(hooked onto the right ear) : a sprawling venantium cuff
(sleeves rolled up, with a tailored fit) : a light duty uniform tunic of black linen
(tucked into the boots, well-pressed) : a tidy pair of light duty uniform trousers
(laced snug and tight) : a pair of sturdy, unpolished leather boots
(attached to the boots) : iron riding spurs

He is a stalwart Human duamvi and stands just shy of six feet in height, towering over many of his peers. He is a sobering, if not grim individual that is seemingly more prone to frown than smile. Broad-shouldered powerful, Aban's military training is written in his musculature, training further marked by the warm sun-blessed shade of his skin that all but gleams with a bronzed hue. His nose has been broken at least once, and a few scars line his face beneath one golden eye, traveling back towards his cheek and temple. His heavy brows are expressive, and dark hair is cut close in a cropped trim that has begun to outgrow its formality, while several days of neglect have added a perpetual shadow to his strong jawline.

(worn on a finger) : an iron-banded ring
(worn on a finger) : a dull iron ring
(worn on the legs) : loose brown trousers
(covering the body) : dark, sparsely-ornamented robes
(worn on the feet) : solid leather boots
(covering the body) : ring mail of the Il'ahji
(around the waist) : a long, crimson belt
(worn on the back) : a tower shield of the Il'ahji

Stine is here attempting to tie a black and gold eyepatch for the first time.

Aban steps into the shop, robes flowing easily around his form as he makes his way to the counter. He pauses midway, offering you a cursory glance, appraising the man up, then down. "Good afternoon," he finally states before finishing his path towards the counter.

Stine's hands cease momentarily as his visible sea-green eye watches Aban step through the space. "Exarch," the Azudim greets formally, having only had a handful of experiences in Aban's presence. He returns to his work attempting to get the ties on a black and gold double-tie eyepatch to sit correctly and stay covering the socket.

"Haven't seen him since..all the Duamvi were gettin' fucked up by the amount of Shadow in the air."

Aban begins to rummage around the polished, wooden boxes arranged to one side, taking out one of the cigars there and holding it gently to his nose and inhaling lightly. "A one-eyed man can not be so inept at applying his own patch unless the man has only recently lost the eye," he murmurs still focusing his attention on the box before him. "Battle wound?" He looks over his shoulder, glancing towards you.

"If only I could have been so lucky," is the first response that comes from Stine as he tilts his head, attempting a different angle. Perhaps he shouldn't have chosen the one that ties to begin with. "No, this was the product of a series of bad decisions that even with some salvaging, still left me..well," the man trails off, his visage shifting to a grimace.

Aban turns back to the box, replacing the cigar with a sigh before closing the lid and making his way over towards you. "Allow me," he states simply, and reaches out to gently pull the eyepatch from your grip. He pauses there, inspecting the wound with the practiced eye of one long familiar with them. Slowly, almost hesitantly, he extends one hand up towards the wound, not quite touching, but growing closer. "How-.." He trails off, lips pursing together pensively.

The approach from Aban and outreaching to grab the eyepatch momentarily stiffens Stine's posture, having to show off the wound of the scarred and empty socket so fully. His jaw works in a brief circle and he forces himself to swallow a light lump in his throat a second later. "Consanguine reached right in and plucked out the thing like a goddamn bloody grape," the man explains in an extremely brief yet descriptive manner.

Aban exhales a hissing breath from behind clenched teeth, anger suffusing his weathered features. "The consanguine filth have much to pay for, this included." He leans in further, inspecting, probing with his eyes alone. "Shadow still lingers there, I can feel it. Does it still pain you?"

The comments from Aban draw the singular sea-green eye to focus specifically upon Aban's visage. Stine squints, if momentarily, before replying, "Hurt like a--.." He pauses, considering his word choice. "..it hurt a lot the first week. Going two into three weeks now. Lingering soreness, some pain when I try to strain myself too much. Balance isn't what it used to be. Feel like I have an itch in my eye at times, which is the..weirdest feeling I've ever had since that shit isn't there." The more the man talks, the more it unravels just how much may actually be bothering him about it despite his attempts to remain stoic.

Aban holds his position, still eyepatch in one hand, his other hovering nearby your face. "Hold still," he finally commands, and that free hand reaches up to cover the entirety of your socket.

A warmth begins to spread around the empty socket of your eye, suffusing itself into your very flesh.

It grows warmer, hotter, banishing and scourging away any hint of taint, infection, or shadow as it does - the presence of any causing its rise in temperature.

Finally, the warmth subsides to a gentle ebb, comfortable, secure. What pain remained, you suddenly realize, is gone.

Stine is immaculately still for the entire duration of the act, the firm command easily followed by the soldier. He does go wide-eyed at the feeling, and one would be able to see in his eye just how the warmth and rising temperature burns away remnants. As it subsides, however, he is left blinking heavily. Speechless.

Aban emits an audible gasp, small as it is and finally takes back his hand. He drops the eyepatch into your own grip before making his way towards the door to the shop. "It should-.. It should ail you less, now, if at all." The Exarch looks back as he moves through the doorway, his steps quick and hastened. "Best of luck, sir." Before he turns his head away, you manage to catch a glimpse of the distinct twitch of pain from the man's own left eye.

Exarch Aban strides south, the room dimming with his departure.

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