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| - Faern turned her head and looked up at the Draenei, one allied with The Sha’tar in Shattrath city. Currently she was in the infirmary, and had been for the past day or so. She had guessed something was wrong, she was usually healed and ready to leave within five hours, not over twenty four (apart from that time she had ran out of blood). The Draenei was female, and looked near ageless like the rest of her species, flawless alabaster skin with a blue sheen to it, glowing silver eyes, delicately curving horns tapering out behind her head and stormy blue-grey hair tied up behind her head, held back by her horns and pointed ears. A few of the facial… thingies were missing, a small scar evident on the upper arm of the Draenei’s left arm, slightly grey against the pale skin. Her name was Vilyara, and the two knew each other rather well, in a patient-doctor sort of relationship. Faern ended up in the infirmary with depressing regularity. “Your body cannot take zis much longer, Miss Flameshine.” The Draenei looked down at Faern with concern. Faern herself was lying on her front on one of the hard beds for those who weren’t actively dying and in a stable condition. Vilyara ran her fingers down some of the ribs on Faern’s back. She yelped, the ribs still aching. The healing had usually solved that by now. The Draenei frowned sadly; the ribs were slightly deformed under her fingers from the many beatings they had received, where they had been re-joined they felt rough under the scarred skin of the young elf, brittle. She withdrew her hands and entwined her fingers with each other, holding them in front of her in a casual way, looking down at the Blood Elf, so young but not likely to live to their equivalent of adulthood, or at least not full adulthood. Still an adolescent, a young one at that. Such a shame what war caused. Faern shrugged casually, hiding a wince as it hurt her bruised ribs, “I know, I know Villy. But what else am I supposed to do, eh?” She smiled, although her remaining green eye was worried. Vilyara rolled her pupil-less pearl eyes at the use of the name ‘Villy’. “I mean it seriously, Faern. Your body cannot take eet much longer. You know our healing ees not as affective as eet used to be.” Vilyara’s tone was serious, a sad indulgent smile on her face, trying to calm Faern. Faern nodded, and then dropped her head back onto her folded hands in front of her, sighing, although not sighing deeply; that hurt. Vilyara continued; the girl needed to know. “Each time vee heal eet, it retains scars. Like on your skin. But scars on ze bone are more… obvious. And like skin scars do not stretch, scars on your bones are more brittle. You have surely noticed?” Again, Faern nodded. Faern’s reaction caused another sad smile to creep onto the pearly face of the Draenei, who sat down beside her on the bed and gently patted her shoulder, sighing and looking at Faern as one would look at a child; she felt so responsible for this little one. Faern sighed again, deeply and ignoring the pain of her ribs. Damn it, she really did need to take at least some of that advice. She couldn’t be falling apart now, not yet… she wasn’t even officially an adult! No, she wasn’t falling apart. It was just a warning from a friend; friends worried too much. Yes, that was it. And it was just the after-healing ache. Vilyara turned her head to look out the ‘window’ – or more hole in the side of the infirmary – at a passing white gryphon hatchling at play with a wyvern kit. A mock battle, all hisses and screeches, but no actual damage done intentionally. Faern blinked and opened her mouth; “But I—” don’t feel healed. What if what Vilyara had said was true? If her body couldn’t be healed so well any more… Well, where your body failed you, you brought technology into play. The Apothecarium in Undercity knew about bodies, some of their number were Ex-High Elves, their leader – Lady Sylvanas Windrunner – was a ranger of Quel’Thalas in life. They would know about bodies, specifically preserving them. Surely this could be adapted to a living body. She pushed herself up and pulled on her leather jacket, pausing while buttoning it up to gaze at the scars on her torso and stomach. Oh, hell, what if it was doing that to her internal organs too? She dismissed the notion and finished buttoning it, standing and walking stiffly to the edge, then whistling for her wyvern; Scar. Aye, Undercity was worth a visit.
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