It was always sweet to awaken to Arvælyn's music within him. A season had passed since his maiming on the sharp edges of the shadow creatures. A season had passed since the most talented and skilled healers in Solunarium had worked their miracle upon his flesh. They had warned him that recovery would be slow, and there had been several surgeries to improve his chances of a fuller recovery. He didn't know yet if he would be able to play the lute, though he did his daily physical therapy and often went overboard gently miming chord progressions against silver strings, not wanting his fingers to lose the feel of them. His voice, at least, was improving as it was the only channel for his creativity at the moment.
Finn continued his duties for the Silver Sentinels, albeit modified to his abilities. He attended parties and events at Arvælyn's side. Despite it all, the healing process sapped him of energy, his body channeling as much as it could into knitting itself back together, tendon by tendon, nerve by nerve, muscle fiber by muscle fiber. He almost wished he could return to Kalzasi, beg the Priestess of Ioniri for help. But to suggest such would be seen as blasphemy by the Solunarians.
His nap ended, he did choose to walk, giving his body and mind a chance to wake up entirely. By the time he arrived at the sitting room and was allowed through by the ever-present guards, the conversation had turned to the Order of the Dawnmartyr. He schooled his face to amiable ignorance. The Order was another thing at which Solunarians glanced askance that he had grown up venerating.
"Your Exalted Highness," he said, bowing to his princeps draconum. "Your Divine Highness," to his princeps septentrionis. His smile wasn't feigned. His sling had been replaced by a clever contraption—a pauldron, a couter, and a vambrace connected magically with kinetics to allow him his former strength while also stimulating nerves and muscles constantly to encourage growth and strength. It felt like his entire arm had fallen asleep and was just waking up, unpleasant, but a small price to pay to have his music back.
"Welcome back to Solunarium."
Finn continued his duties for the Silver Sentinels, albeit modified to his abilities. He attended parties and events at Arvælyn's side. Despite it all, the healing process sapped him of energy, his body channeling as much as it could into knitting itself back together, tendon by tendon, nerve by nerve, muscle fiber by muscle fiber. He almost wished he could return to Kalzasi, beg the Priestess of Ioniri for help. But to suggest such would be seen as blasphemy by the Solunarians.
His nap ended, he did choose to walk, giving his body and mind a chance to wake up entirely. By the time he arrived at the sitting room and was allowed through by the ever-present guards, the conversation had turned to the Order of the Dawnmartyr. He schooled his face to amiable ignorance. The Order was another thing at which Solunarians glanced askance that he had grown up venerating.
"Your Exalted Highness," he said, bowing to his princeps draconum. "Your Divine Highness," to his princeps septentrionis. His smile wasn't feigned. His sling had been replaced by a clever contraption—a pauldron, a couter, and a vambrace connected magically with kinetics to allow him his former strength while also stimulating nerves and muscles constantly to encourage growth and strength. It felt like his entire arm had fallen asleep and was just waking up, unpleasant, but a small price to pay to have his music back.
"Welcome back to Solunarium."