Welcome to Gaia! ::

( Sorry, huuuuge headache... @.@ )

((that's the celebrity date silly man. As for your headache..I hope it clears up ))

Sage nodded, " that will give me time to analyze the gate more at least. I'll go meditate then...If I can get my skin regrown enough, then I should be able to devote more strength to training."

With that, Sage went off into the Dojo. He found his way to the main room, and sat down in a cross legged position. As he sat, he began focusing his mental resolve. As he focused, small motes of light seemed to dance around his right arm. Each mote wiggled it's way through the ectoplasm, and applied itself to Sage's arm. With each mote, a tiny bit of skin was replaced.

((Fen died...it's not like it means her soul was sundered or something. and didn't she die before? and wander around the dojo a while?))

As Sage's skin began regenerating, the ectoplasm around his arm began dissipating. Now, the regeneration didn't start at just the top of his arm and work it's way down, it also started at the tips of his fingers and worked it's way up. After an hour or so of meditation, Sage's hand was finished regenerating, as was the majority of his shoulder.

((*pat pat* try some tea...or Tylenol eh?))

((well then, keep going with fluids or something... your sinuses are probably stuff up or overworked, thus causing a headache. and even if you dont drink it, you can simply take in the aroma of the tea, breathe it in through the nose. do that while the tea is hot and steamy, and it can really help hydrate your sinuses without needing to drink the liquid.))

"Ow!"

Irianna grimaces as she yanks the sharp end of a sewing needle out of her thumb. A tiny bead of blood blossoms at the tip of her finger. She brings the finger to her mouth and sucks at the scratch to stop the bleeding, her brow creasing in agitation. Why didn't I pay more attention when Momma was trying to teach me how to sew?

Sitting in Irianna's lap is her knee-length white cotton gown, her favorite gown, the gown that is now marred with tiny rents and tears and tiny stains of blood and earth. Determined to fix it, the woman has been trying for the past couple of hours to carefully sew up every last hole. The chore has not been going well, though. The stitches are all beyond being just messy. Each one is either too loose, too long, doesn't cover up the hole, has very visible lengths of loose thread, or is in danger of coming undone. Aside from that, Irianna's clumsiness with a needle has led to many fights between the instrument and her thumb. Made obvious by the many fresh blood stains on the stitches and gown, the thumb has not won a battle with the needle yet.

Irianna holds up the gown and looks it over. It is her oldest piece of clothing, something left over from the days when she still lived with her family. Her mother made the gown, and though it is very simple, Irianna has always been of the opinion that it is the most beautiful thing she owns. Of course, that's also the biased opinion of a loving daughter.

Sighing in reminescence, Irianna folds the gown, piles her sewing materials on the bundle, and stands from her seat on the bed. She has taken Reeve's advice and moved into the room he assigned the winged woman, though Irianna doubts she will be spending very much time there. Balancing the clothing and sewing materials with one hand, Irianna opens a dresser drawer with the other and puts away her needlework. She will pick up where she left off some other time. Until then, time to pay one of her rare visits to the kitchen.

The winged woman looks down at herself. While sewing, she had been clad in nothing but her underwear. Not that being so close to nudity mattered in a room with a locked door. Still, it gives the woman a moment to look herself over, something she rarely does. Violet eyes stray to a full-length mirror set on the wall opposite her. Irianna straightens her posture and stands at her tallest, a mere five feet and three inches. Her height has always frustrated the woman. At times when flying can be inappropriate or impossible, it can be hard for someone of her height to reach the top shelf. What she lacks in height, though, Irianna makes up for in shape. Her body is lean and fit, but also has the smooth, womanly curves that another scrawny woman's body would usually lack. Toss in her fine bone structure, flawless pale skin, flowing red locks, and stunningly vivid violet eyes, and even Irianna has to congratulate herself on her appearance.

Darn shame I'm too shy to use this body to attract a decent guy, or to at least respond well when someone happens to notice me. I'm sure now that Sage was making me nervous to win that game, but gads that was embarassing. And I thought I was comfortable around him!

Putting those thoughts away, Irianna turns back to the dresser. What few clothes the winged woman bothers to travel with are neatly folded and put away. She picks out two things and shuts the drawer. A long halter top made of black silk covers her torso, made extra low in the back like all of her clothes to accomodate the large wings. For pants she wears a pair of knee-length black leggings. The leggings are comfortable and stretchy, made for plenty of movement. The black, clingy outfit looks stunning on Irianna's body and against her porcelain skin, but she has never been fond of it. The clothes are very comfortable. Irianna even agrees that they look pretty, but she prefers white. White looks best with her wings.

Mentally shrugging, Irianna leaves her room. Violet eyes glance briefly over Sage. She notices with a start that his arm is mostly healed. If he hadn't been so obviously meditating, she would have said something. Instead, she continues on to the kitchen.

Irianna is already preparing herself a meal. A large pan sits on the stove. The contents are frying potatoes, onions, and thinly sliced sausages. The winged woman is sure the smell will waft into the main hall and attract other hungry people, so she is making sure to cook enough for at least five people. If no one else shows up, then Irianna can just store the leftovers in the fridge and leave a note telling anyone who wants the food to take it.

Iri checks the frying potatoes with a critical eye before flipping them with a sturdy spatula. One wouldn't believe it of the traveler, but she is a pretty decent cook. Years of fending for herself have taught Irianna many things that someone wouldn't imagine her capable of.

Minutes go by and Irianna considers the meal done. She turns the heat off and moves the pan to a table. The pan gets set down on a folded wash towel. A few plates are found in the many cabinets, thankfully on lower shelves. Irianna brings those, some silverware, a few cups, and a jug of tea over to the table.

With a sigh of satisfaction at a job well done, Irianna sits down to her first proper meal since coming to the GNA.