Adjusting [tag Junoxis]

[Quetzal]

Life... was strange. That was the only conclusion Isrydia had been able to come to after struggling to wrap her head around it these past three weeks. Galbatorix was dead, the benefits of the lift of oppression were already being felt, and the realm was in a state of giddy celebration. Why did she still feel so numb? She didn't feel upset. She wasn't happy. It was just a nothingness.

She was sitting, leaning back against the steep bank of a hill on the edge of the river Ramr. It was spring and not that warm, but all the same she was dressed in casual, fairly loose clothing, for once without armour. After wearing armour near constantly for the last couple of months, it was a relief to feel no need to wear any since Galbatorix had died. Her sword, Iarmailt, rested on the ground near her. She was not quite that unprepared for attack. Her eyes were closed in thought, and she was barefoot. Her left leg up to the knee was dangling in the water, enjoying the coolness of it. Her right leg up to the knee was rotting somewhere in the ground near Uru'baen.

It was lucky that her biggest personal loss was a leg. It could have been so much more. So many friends had fought that day, and so much had been at stake. She was a good fighter, and had been knighted just before she had become a Rider, but that was no match for the likes of Galbatorix. They had all fought him, all the Varden Riders, but she had made one wrong move and the mad king had sent her leg spinning to the ground below with a swipe of his sword and a spell. She had panicked and Arlyn had to back off for a while to try calming her down so she didn't make any more serious mistakes, insisting a magician could reattach it while she struggled to find a spell to stop the bleeding. She had joined the final spell to bring down the king, lending what strength she had left and joining the others' minds to formulate the spell, but regretted not being their to help while she fumbled to cope with her wound. Contrary to what her dragon had said, there was no hope of reattaching the limb. They were hundreds of feet into the air; it had either smashed up on impact with the ground, been burned in one of the various fires started by dragons and magicians, or been buried under rubble, or taken away for cremation with the countless other bits of unidentified soldier. There was no finding it. She had to adapt.

The number of wards she placed about herself increased dramatically, since she was far less capable of defending herself. She had to use crutches since she couldn't balance all the time, which made her walking painfully slow. She hated that. She wanted to run, but she could only hobble about. Manoeuvring was hard. Everything was so clumsy, it felt like she was a bumbling idiot half the time and that was frustrating. Stairs were a nightmare, as were thick mud where her crutches got stuck, and cobbles where they could slip into cracks. There were so many things she'd never even thought about. People tried to be nice about it, or at least the decent ones did, but she hated seeing their pity. She didn't feel like she was to be pitied! They never had that look when she was with Arlyn. If anything, people looked confused, or heartwarmed. She'd heard people saying how nice it was for a Rider to help out a poor young crippled girl, which had made her angry, not that she'd said anything. She wasn't a famous Rider, so they hadn't thought that maybe a Rider could be the one stumbling around without a leg.

The dragon in question, Arlyn, was currently having a great time in the river. His ice blue scales glittered with water as he splashed about, swimming against the current and diving underwater to explore how moving in water felt different to moving in air. He hadn't properly swum much, and it wasn't their thing, but he was having fun all the same. The water only just came up to the young dragon's belly at the very edges of the river, and his face was level with Isrydia's. He had a mischievous glint in his deep blue eyes and water in his mouth. This he sprayed in a sharp jet over his Rider, who looked at him in annoyance for a moment, then burst out laughing. She needed to laugh with all this worry building up, and he had known how best to get that. "Arlyn, I'm soaked!" She protested with a smile.

"You were looking so grumpy. You shouldn't brood on things, so I thought I'd wake you up a bit. Think about the good things! We're free! Riders and dragons don't have anything to fear any more! You spent the past three weeks with your family - you haven't seen them in months, and they'd never even met me!" He said. He had thoroughly enjoyed having the population of Kuasta admire him for three weeks straight. He and Isrydia's brother, Jarod, had got along incredibly well. "Also, I think someone's nearby, and I didn't want them to meet you while you had any dignity," he added teasingly. Isrydia glanced about to see if she could spot anyone.

[Junoxis]

Solus sat cross legged against the trunk of a tree, the rough surface of the bark abrasive against his skin despite the clothes on his back. The tree was at the top of the few hills in this particular area of Alagaesia, along the backs of the Ramr River, just northwest of the capital city, Uru’baen. In his left hand, Solus held his trusty hunting knife. The blade looked ordinary enough, save for the handle which was a deep mahogany colour, with silver decorative inlay. Solus can’t remember where he got it, much as he cannot remember anything about his childhood. It was there when he first woke up with no memory, all that time ago, strapped to his hip, and there it had remained for the following half-and-a-quarter centuries that he had been alive. In his right hand he held a chunk of wood that was formless at first glance, but seemed to have the beginnings of a bird in flight. Solus held it up to his face as he carved the edges of its wing.

He had arrived at this particular part of the world 3 or 4 months ago, when he sensed violence coming from the capital city in the nature around him. However, he was too slow on foot and by the time the city came into view the battle was already over. Siege engines lay smoldering outside the city, and smoke still rose from fires yet to be put out. The ground was scarred by the boots of men, dwarves and elves, and the claws of dragons. After finding that there was nothing that he could do to aid the course of battle, Solus retreated to the hills to the north west of the city, for fear of being found, and it was here that he rested, trying to persuade himself to go down and find out the results of the battle. In the days that passed, Solus noticed groups of dragons beginning to fly away as their shadows and searching minds began to pass over him on the way to the elf forest, and everytime they passed, Solus would hide behind his mental barriers and dive for cover.

As he sat and carved, he began to wonder why he had waited for so long. Why wasn’t he already in the city? He needed supplies, and it would do him good to finally emerge from his seclusion. However, no matter how many times he considered the good that would result from his entrance to civilisation, he was reminded of how much the press of bodies annoyed him. the constant noise, the myriad of stifling smells. On top of that, the faint memory of his life-before-he-was flashes before his eyes: raised voices, the sharp pain of newly opened cuts and the raw pang of fear.

Solus’ knife hand slipped, sliding along the surface of the piece of wood and into his right hand. Hissing like a cat, he dropped his carving and his knife on the ground with a soft clatter as he gripped his hand. Examining his wound, he found that the knife had actually sliced quite deeply into the flesh of his hand, seemingly damaging the tendon that allowed his index to function. Cursing, Solus stood and brought the edge of his tunic to his mouth, and tore a strip of the fabric off. As he did so, he heard faintly the sound of someone talking, and laughter. Whipping his head around and crouching, Solus tried to listen to discern where the sound was coming from, and it seemed as though the sound was coming from the river. Solus tightly bound his hand in an attempt to staunch the bleeding and, using his good hand, picked up his knife and replaced it back to it’s sheath at his belt. He bent down to pick up his staff and then walked as quietly as he could towards the Ramr river.
Cresting the hill at the edge of the water, Solus crouched at the top and looked down at a human girl lying on the side of the hill, laughing at the large ice blue dragon gamboling through the river. Solus reasoned they must be paired, making the girl (who was seemingly crippled, looking at the crutch lying in the grass next to her and the missing bottom portion of her right leg) a Rider. The dragon seemed to be having fun, the ice blue of its scales sparkling in the afternoon sunlight, and so Solus decided that they can’t be a threat, at least not to him. Any how, he still maintained his mental barriers, a precaution just in case. He shifted his position to get more comfortable as he watched, and his foot rested on a small rock, causing him to momentarily lose his balance. Reflexively, Solus reached out with his wounded hand to balance himself, but groaned slightly as he rested briefly on his damaged hand. Cursing, Solus hoped that neither the dragon nor their rider had heard that brief loss of composure. Even so, Solus gripped his staff and bared his teeth, waiting for any sort of reaction.

[Quetzal]

((I stabbed myself in my hand 2 days after you posted this about Solus stabbing himself in his hand... what a coincidence!))

Isrydia had been unable to spot the person Arlyn thought was near, but a stumble and grunt drew her attention to a male elf with a staff. His skin was slightly darker than most elves', his face having the same angular beauty as the other elves. He was slim and looked as though he had spent a good deal of time outdoors, away from other people if his roughened appearance was anything to go by. She smiled at him. Elves had been on the Varden's side. They were knowledgeable, friends to dragons, retaining valuable information about the Riders. Evil elves were few and far between, and especially with the war over, she was inclined to trust any and treat them with respect and friendship. She and Arlyn both liked the elves, however showy and arrogant they could be at times.

With help from Arlyn, she got to her feet (or foot) and grabbed her crutches. She wanted to find a decent solution to her lack of half a leg - she had a wooden one for when she didn't want people to stare, but it was incredibly awkward trying to walk with it. Sometimes she needed the crutches even with the wooden leg. She couldn't run with it, either. She had in mind to visit a the dwarf who had made her sword to request he fashion her something with springs to absorb impacts and mechanisms to help it move more naturally. Until then, she had to deal with her situation.

"Hello," she called to the elf, not presuming to go over to him in case he wasn't in the mood for talking. Arlyn dunked his head in the water, then raised it, cold water dripping into the gaps between his scales to cool him down. The coldness on his skin felt good. He hummed gently, closing his eyes as he felt the drops evaporate from his scales, leaving them slightly open to look at the stranger on the hill above them. He noticed the makeshift bandage around his hand, so pointed it out in Isrydia's mind. She could see the blood already beginning to seep through, and was a little alarmed. "Is your hand all right? Were you fighting anyone? I can help if you need it, whether it's fighting people off or healing the hand, though I'd be better at healing right now," she waved a crutch pointedly at the space beneath her right knee. The elf could no doubt heal himself fine, but she didn't want to be rude and not offer any assistance when she could give it.