Trickster, Necromancer, Thief

"So I was right. Your talent does run deeper than herb-gardens and mere folk magic." Silovar comments through the companionable silence.

Osthryn looks up her palm that she had just fully healed. The skin is finally clear of the burn, like it never touched silver in the first place.

"You are very lucky it does," Osthryn remarks. "I am luckier that you used it," Silovar winks knowingly.

Osthryn silently moves to examine Silovar again. "Oh!" Silovar exclaims teasingly when her fingers graze his clavicle and move to his sternum. Her cheeks warm despite herself. He smiles innocently in response to her glare.

She closes her eyes and begins to concentrate. It is more difficult when the patient is both awake and hell-bent on teasing you, but she determines to ignore that as much as possible.

Perfect darkness envelops her again. This time she is not alone. Before her own outlines of Silovar's body can form, a thin blue light wraps around her vision and coalesces above where her hand on Silovar's chest would be. It hovers, as if it is watching what she does. She has never experienced something like this before, but she does not need to question it for very long. Something in her knows beyond doubt that this is Silovar.

She puts the presence of the observer aside in her mind. She had never practiced her healing magic on another Dragon before Silovar, nevermind one that was awake and keen to participate. This is not helful to her current task, however. Osthryn presses her concentration through her fingers, and the presence hovers lower and lower as if to peek at what she is doing.

The light streams down through Silovar's sternum to his heart. Like before, it bursts into a glowing web tracing the pathways of his nerves. It seems that the charcoal had already adsorbed much of the silver. The lines denoting his nerves are clearer, and the frantic state from before has subsided.

Osthryn focuses on the origin of the web, Silovar's heart is still beating rapidly. To her relief, its rhythm appears steady. Her focus moves upward to the base of his skull. The flutter is still present, but far less pronounced. The observer flits past her vision, fixating on the flutter and the darting blips of light emanating from it. At first she instinctively pushes it aside in her mind, but then she notices the object of its attention.

While the silver was thankfully beginning to be adsorbed, this concerns her. Dark lesions are visible all down the nerves in the spine and around the brain stem, and the darting messenger-blips bounce from and around them, some not able to pass at all.

This would explain much of the weakness he is feeling. A thought occurs to her, and she presses her probing further up and into his brain. The observer seems to hesitate, as if considering whether to allow her to pass. She feels compelled to stop. She does. She does not know how, but she tells it what she wishes to do. Moments pass in suspense, and then the observer acquiesces.

The light expands, bringing Silovar's mind fully into view. She closes herself off from most of it -- she has no desire to stumble into or invade any thoughts. She consciously forces her magic to tread lightly as she maps the contours the messages follow.

Then she sees it. The lesion that must have set the first reaction off. If she does not do something about this one in particular, Silovar is liable to fall into a fit again. Whether the lesion is physical or magical in nature is still something Osthryn has to determine, but it will not matter. It's nature is of no consequence once she fixes it.

The observer floats higher in her mind's eye, as if sensing that she needs space. The lights all disappear. The darkness descends in perfect blackness. The observer leaves her.

Osthryn breathes deeply through her nose. The lesion itself and the region around it appears again, alone in the blackness. She presses her fingers harder against Silovar's sternum. Her magic's light flows into the lesion, brightening as she crystallises her healing intention. The light fades, stitching the lesion closed in its wake. The darkness falls on her all at once.

She finds herself sitting on the stool, her hands folded in her lap, her head bowed, her eyes closed.

"That felt... interesting."

Osthryn barely looks up, "Likewise. I have never had an observer with me, I am not used to it."

"So, I am your first?" Silovar teases. Osthryn can hear the grin creeping into his voice. She peers at him through the threads of hair that fall from the rapidly disintegrating hairstyle she so carefully arranged that morning. She musters the will to roll her eyes, but it manifests as an amused smirk. "Yes, I think you are."

"Well, then, I am honoured," Silovar winks.

"You are a fool!"

Osthryn twists to see Oswald furiously striding into the room with his staff clicking against the ground harder than usual. The doors swing on their hinges with the remaining force of his entrance, which Tomas stops to temper before they slam shut against the frame.

"I had to drink it, Oswald. You of all people know how the king's court feels about not drinking your wine in the king's presence."

Oswald comes to a stop at the foot of Silovar's bed, raising his staff and leveling it at Silovar's face, "You also know very well how to 'drink' without drinking anything. And to drink silver? The ancient bane of your people? Not only did you risk your life, you forced Osthryn to act openly in a way she never would have acted otherwise. She has no idea what you are up to, or what you have just dragged her into with your... impulsive... impatience!"

"Luckily, I am well acquainted with his impulsive impatience, Oswald," Osthryn comments coolly, hoping to temper his outburst at her patient. Silovar might be a right fool, but he is in no state for a shouting match. Oswald's gaze spins to her, brown eyes flaring under his bushy grey eyebrows, "I shall take my pleasure in lecturing this boy, Osthryn."

"This boy?" Osthryn asks, raising her eyebrow.

"Oh yes, this boy, for though I am less than a fifth of his age, he has had five hundred years to come to any level of maturity, and he has not!" Oswald exclaims, his staff still hovering before Silovar's face.

Silovar's expression remains impassive. His shoulders shrug as he strains to raise his hand to the staff, but his forearm barely makes it off the bed. He lets his arm fall with a frown, closing his eyes and sighing with frustration.

Oswald lowers the staff, eyes widening in realisation, "Silovar, what have you done?"

"I pushed the timeline."

"You have certainly pushed the timeline," Oswald sighs, letting his staff-arm fall to his side. Tomas takes the staff and puts it against the wall.

"You have proven that someone is seeking you, that much is clear," Oswald continues, "Their purpose and their link to the disappearing wyverns is not something we can easily prove yet, and if we cannot do that in time we are in trouble."

"They are cornered now," Silovar says. "They will have to act quickly. This makes the Keep suspect that the king may be in danger, so their timeline is locked down tighter than ours. Whatever it is."

"Necromancy." Osthryn whispers.

Oswald and Silovar turn their attention to her. "What?" they ask in eerie unison.

"Necromancy," Osthryn repeats herself, looking up at the two of them, "both Frederick and Levitia are marked with black lines. It took me too long to remember what it was, but I could not stop noticing it on their hands. The bards in Bettramon always spoke of 'Those that were marked in trails of black. Those who consorted with the winged devils, to pervert the very order of nature'. I never saw myself, but this is Necromancy, like the bards speak of. I am sure of it."

"See? I told you she would see something," Silovar grins at Oswald. The latter silently bows his head, absorbed in thought.

"Trickery, Necromancy, and thievery" Tomas whispers, his eyes gazing blindly into the distance. "Well put, Tomas" Oswald agrees, "Well put."