Fantasy RP Fallen from Grace and Into Your Arms (Sol)

[FaeWhisperer]

Zarinth took in a sharp breath as he suddenly jolted awake. The pain that he had felt from his back earlier was soothed by the cold of the fresh snow underneath him. Once he started to become fully conscious again, he stared up into the sky seeing black smoke fill the air and blot out the sun. He then turned his head to look over the battlefield of where he laid, his golden flecked irises surveying his fallen brethren - those who had helped him in the uprising. Various Angelic swords and spears were either impaled through their bodies or strewn aside from their own hands as they had dropped them when they died.

Zarinth knew he did not have time to grieve their deaths. For he could not grasp the reason why they had join the fight in the first place.
Why were they here? Why did they all have to die? He gripped his own blade in his bloody hand while his thoughts tried to piece things together.

War had seemed inevitable at this point-- that he was well aware of, but the reasoning on why he joined and fought was now muddled, his memories scattered at most -- probably due to the fall he had suffered and had hit his head earlier. For whatever reason, his side had currently lost. He did not know if there were other survivors. He hoped if there were -- that they had gotten to some sort of safety.

He closed his eyes again and the ringing in his ears muffled out the sounds of people shouting. He could have sworn he heard the words
'Medic! There's someone alive over here!'

As if.

No one would help him, not willingly at least. No one would touch what he was -- an aasimar. One who had supposedly fallen from grace no doubt. Considering where the battlefield lay, and in a pool of his own blood and defeat, he could be considered disgraced at this point.

Barely reaching the age of 20, he knew he could live up to a hundred years more, but after today, he doubted that was possible.​

---

Name: Zarinth
Race: Aasimar (fallen)
Powers: Typical dnd stats -- found here
Height: 5'5 - 165 cm
Age at the time of this intro post: 20 years
Description: Being the youngest of five siblings, Zarinth had large shoes to fill. Unlike his other siblings, he resembles his divine mother more, getting both her height and retrospective thinner build. And although his divine power and strength had been unmatched-- at first glance, his body did not seem like he was one to cut down 20 fiends in one go. He had often been described as moody, distant, cold and judgmental. His family and the friends he makes mean everything to him, although you wouldn't hear him outrightly state such a fact.
Mood board: Zarinth
Likes / Dislikes: Prefers a quiet space to collect his thoughts and sketch. He owns many sketch books, art easels -- more often than not is seen with a paintbrush in his hand rather than his blade. He dislikes distrustful people, those who can never keep their word. He'd much rather hear the truth than some sugar coated lie.

@Solaris-

 

[Solaris-]

Name - Mischa Camoa
Race - Fey touched human
Height - 5'10
Age - 22
Description - Dark hair with sunkissed skin and freckles, Mischa passes easily as a normal human. Though, one look at him and his talents betrays an ancestry a bit more powerful than normal human magic. While he may appear as cold and quiet while working, he actually is a warm person. Extroverted, and amicable to new friends. He has a gift for healing magics among other things.
Likes - Tomes wrapped in old leather, strong wine, collector of small metal trinkets and jewelry
Dislikes - Blood, wasteful mana use, dishonesty

--

Mercenary work was something Mischa disliked. But it unfortunately was what brought the most income these days. Being a gifted medic had spared him the ceaseless fighting that others who were drawn to this profession seemed to enjoy. He would much rather be behind the lines of battle doing what he could to save lives rather than end them. Needless to say, the day hadn't gone well for either side, and his day was left busy healing those that wailed in agony in the makeshift tent setup as a sad excuse for a infirmary. Some of them he knew he couldn't save, but he could ease their pain with medicine and a spell. He was tired and hadn't had much sleep the night before, and his mana was nearly depleted by this point. Mischa knew he'd have to retire soon before he started tapping into his own life source as energy. With things nearly wrapped up here, he assumed he would be clear to head back to the barracks for at least a little rest, but alas.

"Medic, there's someone alive over here!"

The shout snapped the brunette from his daze, and he was quick to leave the comfort of the tent to witness the carnage of the battlefield first hand. It was hard to believe that in such few numbers, they'd shed this much blood. It painted the floor, the trees, and sloughed through the bushes like a river. The sight made him a little queasy. Not even all the medical training he had helped stay the nausea that filled him when taking it in with soft gold eyes. Mischa fought through the waves of nerves and made it to where a body lay. A beautiful creature lay in the center of a pool of crimson that stained the earth under him. Aasimar without a doubt. He'd never laid eyes upon such a creature before, but he found the other man to be enchanting even in his weakened state, and he could feel the power this man held just by looking at him. Had he been the one to cause all of this madness?

Without a second thought, he reached down to press his hand against the Aasimar's neck- ensuring that he was indeed still alive through the pulse he felt under his fingertips. It was faint, but it was there. He knew he needed to stay the bleeding to stabilize him. Even being a holy creature, he wouldn't live long if he bled out like this. A tanned hand pressed against one of the deeper wounds on his body and a warmth emanated from his palm. "I can save you. Please don't fight me." For all the ones he couldn't save today, perhaps he could do this much. The wound closed slowly and the bleeding stopped. By the time, he pulled his hand away, he was breathless and dizzy. The familiar shape of another medic came from the blurred shapes in his vision. "Take him to the tent and find him a bed."

"But, sir," The medic protested, clearly uncomfortable with the idea of touching the Aasimar. There was disgust in his voice, but Mischa stared up at him with eyes that began to refocus themselves. Covered in the boy's blood and determined as he was, the other medic didn't argue again. An empty bed was found, and Mischa busied himself by removing the bloodstained and battle worn clothes from his body other than whatever undergarment the boy had worn. "Aasimar, if you can hear me, I need you to share your mana with me so that I can save your life. What is it you would desire in return?" This exchange sounded terribly like a fey pact. Something that would likely bond the two of them together for better or for worse, but for whatever reason, he wanted to save this life.​