"Very good. I am sure you will find some improvement when you wake next. May your dreams be gentle, dear Micolash." With that, Abysa uses his free hand to press his fingertips gently to the scholar's forehead. He mouths a few silent words, going over the spell in his head before it takes form. The sleeping spell appears like a soft cloud of dust, or perhaps soot, due to the shadowy nature of Abysa's power, which dissipates as it falls onto Micolash's body. To the human, it might feel like a puff of cool mist has fallen onto one's bare skin, before all goes dark, drifting into sleep.
As much as he feels lonely now that Micolash's consciousness is drifting in the realm of sleep, Abysa knows that now is the time to prepare properly for his patient. He nudges Henry awake, (Henry responds with a whine and a wide yawn), checks Micolash one more time to assure the spell has taken, and sets about to work.
Much of the night is spent cleaning, as the poor scholar's body is caked with dried blood. Abysa works patiently, opting to clean him with a cloth and basin rather than dip him in the bath. Something pleasant like a bath is better left to when he is awake, and requires comforting. He has to refill the basin more than once, the water becoming cloudy and dark with old blood being rinsed from the hand-cloth (which will now not likely resemble its old colour ever again, stained a sickly rusted colour even after a washing).
The bed is then prepared with new sheets and blankets. Though soft, they are of a special fabric woven expertly by demonic hands to account for messes efficiently (that is, absorbing much and dampening little), which will be handy, considering the amount of blood Micolash is prone to losing. The embroidery is white on black, depicting various demonic designs, mostly stylized depictions of native underworld plantlife.
Abysa also spares no expense drawing up an order for more supplies from his home realm, scrawling it on parchment as he occasionally looks to his sleeping charge. It is then rolled up into a tight scroll, which Abysa affixes to Henry via a handsome ribbon around his neck. The nice thing about Hell-born cats is that they understand how to navigate through the portals and channels needed to reach their destination. This makes them perfect messengers, if one corresponds often with demons.
Once Henry is sent on his errand, Abysa seats himself back near Micolash, who is now significantly cleaner, and tucked in with new and clean blankets. It is an improvement, at least by looks alone, yet the human still looks so frail and wan. It still feels too much like a deathbed, and not simply his bed. With some time before Henry returns, and before the scholar will wake, Abysa sits himself cross-legged besides him, bows his head, and begins to pray.
It is rare for him to pray seriously in this manner; clothed and chaste, rather than reveling in the pleasure of a ritual, but his spirits are low and his drive similarly so. Instead, he prays with all his might that one of his dear Lords will take the chaste and solemn plea of their betrothed with seriousness.
It feels like hours pass as he remains in that spot, begging for a merciful blessing. He is about to weep from feeling dejected before he senses an answer. There are no words, no visions, but the echo of his loves' affection and well-wishes. It is a soft, encouraging warmth that fills him from within his skull, and down his spine, until he feels refreshed and relaxed.
He wonders if they called each other first to discuss what the problem might be before their answer. It had happened before. Oh, they better not send an entourage with Henry if that is the case...
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As much as he feels lonely now that Micolash's consciousness is drifting in the realm of sleep, Abysa knows that now is the time to prepare properly for his patient. He nudges Henry awake, (Henry responds with a whine and a wide yawn), checks Micolash one more time to assure the spell has taken, and sets about to work.
Much of the night is spent cleaning, as the poor scholar's body is caked with dried blood. Abysa works patiently, opting to clean him with a cloth and basin rather than dip him in the bath. Something pleasant like a bath is better left to when he is awake, and requires comforting. He has to refill the basin more than once, the water becoming cloudy and dark with old blood being rinsed from the hand-cloth (which will now not likely resemble its old colour ever again, stained a sickly rusted colour even after a washing).
The bed is then prepared with new sheets and blankets. Though soft, they are of a special fabric woven expertly by demonic hands to account for messes efficiently (that is, absorbing much and dampening little), which will be handy, considering the amount of blood Micolash is prone to losing. The embroidery is white on black, depicting various demonic designs, mostly stylized depictions of native underworld plantlife.
Abysa also spares no expense drawing up an order for more supplies from his home realm, scrawling it on parchment as he occasionally looks to his sleeping charge. It is then rolled up into a tight scroll, which Abysa affixes to Henry via a handsome ribbon around his neck. The nice thing about Hell-born cats is that they understand how to navigate through the portals and channels needed to reach their destination. This makes them perfect messengers, if one corresponds often with demons.
Once Henry is sent on his errand, Abysa seats himself back near Micolash, who is now significantly cleaner, and tucked in with new and clean blankets. It is an improvement, at least by looks alone, yet the human still looks so frail and wan. It still feels too much like a deathbed, and not simply his bed. With some time before Henry returns, and before the scholar will wake, Abysa sits himself cross-legged besides him, bows his head, and begins to pray.
It is rare for him to pray seriously in this manner; clothed and chaste, rather than reveling in the pleasure of a ritual, but his spirits are low and his drive similarly so. Instead, he prays with all his might that one of his dear Lords will take the chaste and solemn plea of their betrothed with seriousness.
It feels like hours pass as he remains in that spot, begging for a merciful blessing. He is about to weep from feeling dejected before he senses an answer. There are no words, no visions, but the echo of his loves' affection and well-wishes. It is a soft, encouraging warmth that fills him from within his skull, and down his spine, until he feels refreshed and relaxed.
He wonders if they called each other first to discuss what the problem might be before their answer. It had happened before. Oh, they better not send an entourage with Henry if that is the case...