Blood for the Fields: Day 2 - Triage

East Leg 


 * The riverside town of East Leg, founded two centuries ago by Yontalas Lomasa, has over time become a popular settlement area for those who have served in some capacity within the Emperor's Blades until they became too old to ride, patrol or defend against threats within and without. Old horsemen and bladesmen can often be found in the Clanging Gong Tavern, telling stories of their adventures in the Emperor's service.


 * The township hugs the northern shore of the Fastheld River, and a busy dock juts out into the jade green waters. Market Road twists northeast, following the Fastheld on its way toward the city-state's commerce district. The Aegis Road cuts west, similarly following the course of the Fastheld, toward the massive wall that envelopes the realm; and a paved way cuts east to where the mansion of East Leg's ruler lies: the Heron Hall.


 * Though the calamity is mostly over, and though the quiet after the storm has once against descended upon a location stricken by an assault of Black Wildlings, that lull of sound does not continue for very long.


 * A thunder sounds from the west; not a natural thunder, however, but one of hoof and horse and soldier. A dissonant collection of sounds all blending to form one constantly dull fulmination heralds their arrived: a column of riders, three ranks deep by five ranks wide. Fifteen in all.


 * The cobalt-blue of their armor glistens beneath the torches a few of them hold as they ride hard towards East Leg, a standard carried by the middle rider proclaims their alliance for all to see: An ivory steelwood upon a field a black. Cavalry of the Imperial Watch.


 * However, they don't ride alone. At the head of this cavalry uni, upon a mount bred and armored for war, rides a different kind of warrior. A warrior with auricomous hair of silver and eyes of ethereal blue, clad in a matte-black surcoat and leather pants. In his right hand a longsword of obsidian glimmers wickedly as it refracts whatever light dares fall upon it.


 * The sharpness of that weapon is second only to that of his determined expression, and the steel in his gaze...

For a moment, it seems Katriana is caught in the middle of something, looking to Alin, and then the scattered wounded. Her conscience seems to win out, and following Voreyn's pleas, the Nillu strides off to go /find/ the little blond in the multitude of bodies. Red and blond go well together, and it eventually becomes easy to find her, and she kneels down, setting her bow aside. "Milora? Can you hear me?" The sound catches her attention. "Help is coming, just... don't die."

Vamyla's breathing has slowed substantially in her unconscious and quite bloodless state. One who wasn't close enough to examine her could easily mistake her for dead, although truthfully she can't be far off. Her body remains limp on the cobbles, a short ways away from the rest of the people due to her movement earlier.

Ashlynn winces, but it seems more from what she witnesses than what she might feel. With the slow, disjointed movements of someone still deep in shock, she vaguely plants her free foot against the dead horse's saddle and tries to push herself free from beneath its bulk, her right arm scrabbling for purchase upon the road while her left hangs limp beside her, soaked and dripping with red.

The Wildcat Duke, sprawled out on the ground, manages to nearly get his breastplate off. He opens up the lower clasps enough that he can get a hand beneath his breastplate to hold his wound. He grips his injured belly tightly, grunting and contorting his face in pain. His other hand tightens on the blade of his sword. "Corah, give me strength," he grumbles through a clenched jaw.

Opening her streamings eyes again, Milora looks Alin directly in the face - and her nose and lips crinkle as her face pulls into one of miserable horror. She opens her mouth to answer him, which appears to have been a mistake: she emits a short, hacking cough and a small mass of partly-congealed blood flows over her bottom lip.

Finding a hay-fork, the Seamel lets his cloak fall to the ground and begins to drag down the reeds that cover the burning house, fire falling down about him, mostly drifting to the ground before doing any damage. He goes about the work quickly and methodically, stabbing the fork into the thatch as it it were the very enemy that had made the attack.

Voreyn doesn't answer the question as she sees Katriana arrive. Instead, she raises her head up again and strains painfully to catch sight of the other fallen. She can see two unconscious, a male and a female - commoner by their dress. There's no names to call out, though, only, "Them too!", before she attempts to leverage herself up into a kneel using her still good left arm.

"At last," exhales Norran to himself as he spots the standard, the light caused from the township's fire enough to aide his sight. He needs only recall from memory or glance to the pack of The Watch settled among his horse's saddlebags to recognize the sigil. "Good that they came, this time about. We need it." With that, he leaves the fire fighting to the town guard and whatever concerned citizen remains in East Leg and doesn't want their home to burn to the ground. He and Palisade move off at a light gallop, being careful to avoid trampling anybody as they head to meet the approaching Watchmen.

"Prince Kahar!" calls the Duke when he's within range, tugging on Palisade's reins the slow the horse turn him about somewhat, "Thank the Light you've arrived! Half of the township is in flames, and we've too many wounded to care for at this scale! Black wildlings attacked like they did last night near Light's Reach, but this time a couple dozen. Illusions, and then arrows from the west. The Guard and I and a few travellers managed to fight off the horde, but the damage remains. You must hurry, Your Highness!"

Giving up on tearing the cloak, Alin instead rips a large strip off of the Mikin tabard, the velvet tearing much more easily than the sturdy travelling cloak. Kneeling by Milora's side, he gathers the small blonde woman in his arms, sitting back and freeing up a hand to try tugging the velvet strip into an improvised tourniquete to the shoulder joint. Ge calls out to the watch riders in a brief, gravelly report: "Wildlings are dead, fire's being fought. We need triage help at once!"

Katriana Nillu gives Milora a rather shakey smile, "Don't speak. Help is coming. Be lucky you went down early, or else you may have had a heart attack as that Duke of yours charged off head first. I nearly had one as my Alin took off." She gives the little Lomasa a squeeze of her hand on the uninjured side before rising to reclaim her bow and look around. She shrugs off her cloak and mirrors Alin's movements with some difficulty, moving for the downed Zahir Duchess. "Your Grace?" she asks quietly. "Lie still... this will undoubtably hurt, but I am going to try and slow the bleeding."

Considering the state of some of the horses that ride in the cavalry column, 'you must hurry' seems almost redundant. Regardless, Serath seems to avoid pointing out that fact as he draws closer to the Knight-Errant and instead regards him with a mirthless expression, his obsidian blade held at a vertical angle down and away his body and the Charger he rides. "I see you found some old friends of mine," he states, looking around at the carnage before promptly dismounting with all the fluidity of even the most agile of felines; his footfall as he meets the ground are all but silent. "You're not going to be much help from up there, Sir Knight," he offers as he checks Shiningcoat's saddle and straps before promptly placing that longsword he holds back to rest within the charcoal scabbard at his hip. Those ethereal eyes of dusty blue look back upon Norran once more. "Either take the Watch, or help me down here."

The impromptu fire-fighter grunts as a particularly heavy sheaf of burning thatch thuds off his armor, leaving his face blackened with the soot it gives off. Lyddmull Seamel continues pulling apart the roof, soon joined in his efforts by the house's owner who begins to put out the blazing chaff as it falls.

Ashlynn is forced to give up on moving her pinned leg after a few attempts that leaves her breathless and shaking. Still, there is a sight that proves distraction enough from her predicament as the prince rides in, and her glazed eyes abruptly focuses upon the unmistakable figure. "Serath..." she husks in surprise.

Tiris lifts his head up just far enough, and just long enough, to note Serath's arrival. He exhales slowly, tightens his hold on his wound, and curses in a deep rumble. He moves his gore-soaked blade over next to his body before finally releasing it. The Wildcat Duke tries to unclasp his breastplate again, this time with his dominant hand.

The Duchess is on her knees and leaning heavily on her left hand as her right hangs down awkwardly limp. Her head is bowed as she breathes heavily, and she looks up slowly as the voice addressing her nears. Muscles in her cheeks twitch as she clenches her jaw to ward away any tears, and indeed the tough Zahir's eyes are dry enough. "No, p-please," she coughs, lifting her chin in a gesturing motion toward others who are lying unconscious.

"The others are worse. They're not awake." She turns slowly on her knees and reclines on her backside with a jarring drop, and she winces and growls as it pains her once more. Her left hand pulls her right into her lap and she gestures with her chin toward the others. "Please."

Milora only manages a grave shake of her head in Katriana's direction - she doesn't appear to want to risk opening her mouth again. She relaxes in the Mikin's arms, although she doesn't let her head fall back for fear of never being able to lift it again. Blinking a few times, Milora uses this opportunity to pick out Voreyn (there's a good deal of relief there) and Norran together with Serath. The sight of these two gentlemen together precedes a high-pitched and surprisingly contented sigh, which forces more blood to seep out through her mouth.

"I'm afraid I'm not much help back there, either. I know as much about healing as I do about fist-fighting while sober. I'm sure the Watch can handle themselves in a fire, we've already given our best Lomasa hospitality to your old friends. I don't grant that they'll be returning, although the wine is quite a draw," somewhat grimly replies the Lomasa Duke, slipping off off Palisade's saddle with little effort and giving the horse a quick pat on the side to follow after the Prince.

"I believe I saw my fellows, Duke Kahar and Duchess Zahir among the wounded. As well as Mi-" he pauses, his frown deepening, "The Lady Arbiter. I've the upmost confidence in your word and duty, Prince Kahar."

"Marshal," the Wildcat Prince states towards the leader of the Cavalry Unit, "Take the rest of the Watch. Burn every Wildling body you come across with haste, and make SURE the flames consume them. Don't try to stack them, don't try to move them. Leave them where they have fallen but do whatever you can to purge them from this place."
 * With a grim and silent nod of affirmation, the Cavalry Marshal orders his riders to split up into groups of three, and the sound of hooves and Imperial Steel flows in every direction as those riders set off to accomplish their dire task.

Once the riders have all broken off, Serath turns back to Norran, offering him a reassuring nod. "Right now we need to have more confidence in the Light and the tenacity of those that survived the carnage than we do my word and duty. Search the wounded, find those who are critical and come back to me. I'll try and save all that I can."

The arrival of the Wildcat Prince and retinue seems to finally distract Lyddmull from his sweaty, sooty work. He watches the Kahar and the Lomasa for a brief moment, seeming to lose himself in thought until the fire regains his attention and he returns to pulling the roof down. One side almost finished, he moves quickly to the other side of the building.

"We make a good team, Kat." Alin replies to the Nillu as she tries to assist Voreyn; With Milora's shoulder wound taken care of as best he can, he tries to staunch the abdominal bleeding with the remnants of his tabard. "Hold still, Milora Lomasa. I can't remove these arrows, but I'll do my best for you." He slowly rises to his feet, cradling Milora as if holding a wounded bird, calling out, "Where are we taking the wounded?"

"Aye, Your Highness. Should we take them into the tavern or leave them where they lie?" asks Norran, but he's already on his way toward East Leg's square. He waits for awhile for an answer, and if none is given, he continues forward. A blur of amethyst and obsidian, the Lomasa Duke moves swiftly amongst the wounded to assess them the best he can. Which is pretty much based on how much blood is pooling around them and if they're unconcious or not.

Katriana Nillu smiles as she looks to Alin, hesitating for a moment before pressing the carefully worn leather down to the wound, and around the arrow. "I am sorry for the pain I may be causing..." she murmurs. Her hands are gentle, or as gentle as can be, considering she's applying pressure to an open wound. "I would say so, Alin, but I do not like fighting beside you... I worry too much over your safety, and it is harder to focus on landing my shots."

"Where they lie," is the pragmatic reply from the Prince as the Duke Lomasa moves away. He doesn't elaborate; time is far too short to elaborate. Instead, the Prince apparently decides to let the Light guide him, moving first to the left, and then apparently deciding to move to the right instead. Some might call it a gut feeling, others might claim it was instinct, but as Serath moves at a swift, silent, and utterly determined stride towards Milora, there are those who might herald it as divine intervention.

The Duke Kahar manages to get his breastplate almost all of the way off this time, openning almost all the way on its hinges. He props himself up again, painfully, and inspects the wound on his stomach. It bleeds slowly, staining his white silk underarmor into a vibrant red. Ultimately, he just presses his hand firmly against the wound and falls back down to his back.

"We'll talk about it later, Kat." With the approach of Serath, Alin turns to the prince, with the bleeding arbiter in his arms, bushy grey eyebrows rising with an unspoken question. The arbiter's blood stains his fern green armor and the padded tunic beneath, spreading as Milora continues to bleed on the Mikin.

The Zahir hisses in pain and hangs her head again, shuddering as the cloth is pressed to her wound. She pulls her right arm up against her abdomen and closes her eyes to gather up her strength; unfortunately, it is quickly fading with her loss of blood (minimal compared to others but substantial nonetheless), and her head swims as she glances up again. Bleary eyes watch in a detached manner as the Prince approaches Milora, and she mutters a quiet, "Bloody brilliant." Reijek has disconnected.

Some sort of vigor seems to return to Milora's body as Serath approaches: that is, she becomes a little more responsive to her surroundings, and produces something like a shiver or a flutter. She looks at him, wide-eyed, and swallows rather forcefuly before gasping quietly through her mouth. The most dominant emotion visible on her face can best be described as 'apprehensive', although there's probably very little doubt that she's glad of the Prince's presence.

"I am sorry," Katriana murmurs to Voreyn, eyes still on Alin. Serath draws some attention and she dips her head down as he passes. "Your Highness," she says quietly.

The Prince hesitates for a moment as he finally makes out the girl beneath the blood and wounds to be Milora Lomasa. It's a hesitation of pained shock, and one that clouds the steel of his expression for a moment as the identity of his wounded friend sinks in.

A second rolls by, and then another, and as those few ticks of time march on he just watches, speechless; but time and reality have a habit of catching up with people, and when they fail, experience and duty are there to catch you when you fall.

One leather glove is removed, and then the other, and as he kneels beside Milora, his gaze falls upon Alin in turn. "I can't see where she's wounded beneath the blood and the clothing. I need you to show me exactly where the wounds are. Can you do that?"

Ashlynn blinks as her vision blurs, struggling for a moment to remain focused upon the prince's retinue before she sinks back with a muted groan of mixed frustration and misery, struggling to swallow back nausea as her head swims for a moment. "Light..." she hisses, tensing as the first pricklings of pain begins to pierce the haze that had muffled it.

One house safe, Lyddmull turns to look for another, wiping soot and sweat away from his brow. This is pretty unsuccessful since his hand is also covered in soot and sweat. Sighing in frustration, he goes to attack the next burning building, wielding his hay-fork wrathfully against the flames. His anger continues to build as he works, steadily ripping the roof of the house off before the flames can engulf the entire structure.

"These three aren't responding, Your Highness! This noblewoman, this...erm, healthy young freelander woman, and this freelander fellow! The last one smells unusual, but dresses quite impeccably! I'll mark them for you," answers Norran. Next to Subhan, Norran unclasps his silken cloak from his neck and rests it over her. Next to Vamyla, he unslings his backhanger baldric and scabbard holding his claymore, Retribution, and rests it beside her.

Next to Reijek, he frowns somewhat, and tosses his dagger and sheathe down beside him. When he spots Ashlynn, still pinned under the horse, he frowns. He takes a few glances at it from a few angles, before looking over to those surrounding Milora. "Can any of you help me with this horse? He seems to be atop someone."

Ashlynn squints upwards as Norran's shadow passes over her, and as she slowly processes his words, she gives a hoarse, breathless laugh. "I suppose...it's her turn now...to be on top. Poor Mist. Just taught her to roll over..." she husks with broken humor, eyes closing with a grimaced wince.

"Here on the shoulder, below the part where I've tied it off, but then down here as well.. Must've at least punctured a lung, there's blood on exhalation." Alin answers, kneeling again to place Milora before Serath. He rolls up his cloak and tucks it behind the woman's neck and head, adding to Serath, "If you've got her, I'll see if I can go help the Duke with the horse before he accessorizes them all to death.”

"Will you be alright until someone can see to you, Your Grace?" Katriana asks quietly, still applying pressure. "There are others that I should see to... at least help tally our dead, and ensure those still breathing are somewhat comfortable." Alin Mikin pages Milora and Serath Kahar: Oops..

"Oh, you can speak, Mistress? That's good news! Rest now, we'll get her off you, soon. I know it must be painful to lose her like this, but we can prepare a proper pyre for her after the township stops burning down," offers the Lomasa Duke with a calm smile toward Ashlynn. As Alin arrives, Norran reaches for the horse's end. "I can't do it myself, unfortunately. This is going to be hard, three or four more men would've made me feel comfortable. Just give it a try when you're ready."

The Prince would usually smile at a quip such as Alin's, no matter how dark the situation was, or no matter how dire things had become. But seeing Milora's broken form in front of him, it would see that Serath can find little mirth on this hour. "Ah, Milora," he whispers, resignation and regret deep within his voice, though a warm smile remains all the same. "Didn't you learn anything in the War Room that day?" He pauses for a moment, looking her over, before sighing and getting to work. One hand is placed upon Milora's shoulder, the other on her breast upon the wound there. Modesty and social convention be damned. "Light give me strength."

Vamyla is still laying on her left side, unconscious, bleeding all over the place, /very/ pale, breathing /very faintly, and yes, still with an arrow sticking out of the right portion of her somewhat pudgy belly. At least her face still looks nice... Sort of like she's sleeping... The addition of Norran's sword and baldric does nothing to improve the look.

Having held his wound long enough, Tiris now begins to quickly rip up his blood-stained shirt. He tears the cut open wider, and from there, rips it cleanly down the middle. A strip of silk comes off in his hand, and he wads it up to place against his stab wound. He lays on his back throughout, silent, only cringing in pain.

A ripple of unhappiness goes through Milora's body at Serath's words. Her eyebrows some down and together, and she frowns, refraining from any movements of her head and certainly from any speech. Nor do his actions appear to bother her; the hand on her chest is given a brief glance before her eyes return to his face. For the first time, there's some fear there.

Getting hit in the eye with burning thatch is no fun, despite it being the least of the injuries incurred tonight. It takes a minute or two for 'firefighter' Lyddmull to recover, grumbling darkly as he resumes his attack with a will, finishing off yet another roof. He turns around to seek out another place to lend his rather soot-covered presence to.

"S'all right..." Ashlynn manages after a dry swallow, shaking her head to refocus a dangerously wandering focus. "Just gimme...the letters...can't lose the letters..." she mumbles, awkwardly bracing her free foot again in preparation to pulling herself away when they begin to shift the horse's dead bulk.


 * Pure and holy white shines forth from the gaps between Serath's fingers as the Light gets to work. Milora's physical wounds promptly heal as the divinity of the Prince's gift seals flesh and mends muscle. So great is the purity of the Light, and so solid is Serath's convinction, that even the arrow shafts - foreign bodies all - disintegrate in the wake of such awesome power. When Serath removes his hands, Milora's wounds are all but gone. The only evidence of their taint exists in the blood around where they used to be, and the tears in Milora's clothing.

One down, quite a few others to go. The Prince smiles at his fallen friend, taps her on the nose, and then stands to locate his next triage patient. Those discarded leather gloves remain by Milora's side. "Norran!" Serath calls, casting titles to the side, though his dire tone leaves no respect behind, "Who else?"

"The three near here! The one with my claymore next to her looked the most severe! Next, the one next to my dagger and the one with my Knight's cloak over her!" grunts aloud the Duke in return, giving Alin a nod as he crouches down. "One...Two...Three!" he huffs, putting all of his might into lifting his side of the horse.

Benedict arrives from the direction of Riverhold Castle with his horse and wagon, stopping a short distance in from the intersection of roads. Seeing and hearing the confusion as he looks around.

The Prince promptly sets off in the direction of Norran's voice, the determination of his stride unbroken save for one event: as Serath passes by the prone Duke Kahar, he can't help but pause for a moment. Yet, seeing that Tiris is not as critical as some of the others, personal loyalties are placed to the side, and the Prince continues his trek to Duke Lomasa's side.

Voreyn has the gusto to wave her left hand dismissively to Katriana, no longer able to answer her vocally. She swallows as she watches the Prince tend to Milora, and the Zahir has the heart to shed a few tears of relief at the sight of the Prince's healing powers. The relief is so great, even, that it gives the Duchess leave to let out a single breathy sob before leaning to her left side and sprawling awkwardly into unconsciousness - more than likely a result of overwhelming shock.

The Mikin grunts explosively as the two armored men shove at the horse. Veins press against the surface of Alin's neck and forehead, but the bulk of the beast finally begins to shift under the assault.

A soot-blackened Seamel spots the smith as he rolls into town and moves quickly towards him. "Master Thatcher," he calls out as he approaches, a hay-fork brandished in one hand, "Would you be so kind as to lend your aid in either moving the wounded or helping with the fire?" He gestures quickly to the burning buildings before moving off to the closest one himself, glaring at a man who accidentally heaves a bucketful of water at him as he passes.

"Go, Serath, get the others," Tiris urges the Prince onward, even though he obviously doesn't need to. The Duke Kahar continues to hold his wound, though he does prop himself up on one elbow to take a look around at the carnage.

Ashlynn takes a deep, bracing breath when she feels the horse begin to move, and then shoves hard against the saddle. The air escapes her lungs in a strangled sound as hurts, both known and new, flare in complaint. But, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted, she continues straining against the weight until she finally clears the crushing weight...then collapses, reserves spent.

Norran's a bit younger than Alin, so he doesn't grunt /as/ much, but there is grunting. None-the-less, he remains totally focused on his task as the horse begins to rise. "Come on *huff*, just a /little/ while longer!" grunts Norran, beginning to shimmy alongside Ashlynn to try to clear the horse from her.

With the Knight located and then the claymore in question spotted in turn, Serath swiftly moves to Vamyla's side. One wound is apparently easier to find than two, and as that one wound has an arrow marking the spot, the Prince seems to have less trouble locating the impact point than he did with the blood-soaked Milora. He kneels, traces the side of the shaft down to the point of impact in Vamyla right side, and the places his right hand atop the laceration around the jutting shaft.

Katriana Nillu presses her fingers against Voreyn's shoulder gently before rising and looking around, biting on her lower lip. She looks to those injured, rubbing absently as a stain of blood on her armor.

Benedict dismounts from his horse and wagon, setting the wheel's brake as an afterthought after his boots land heavily upon the surface of the road. "What'n the blazin' blue light happened here?" he asks in a continued state of confusion.


 * The flare of light from Serath's hand isn't quite as bright as it was when he was treating both of Milora's wounds, but - as the wound heals, the torn tissue within repairs itself, and the lodged tip and shaft of the arrow vanish beneath the pure light - it would seem that it is far more than enough to do the job for now.

The now-drenched, but cooled-off Seamel turns back towards the smith. "Wildlings attacked and set fire to the town," he calls back, "If you will excuse me, I have work to attend to." He goes to the aid of several guardsman pulling the roof off of a particularly large house in the corner of the square.

Alin pushes himself to his feet once the horse is moved, nodding to Norran with a grim expression. He moves towards the tailor now, stooping to check the man's pulse in silence.

With a heavy breath, Katriana quietly walks in the direction of Alin, dropping a hand down to his shoulder. "You are alright?" she inquires, kneeling down to examine the bleeding tailor. "I have much left of my cloak, if you need it," she says, offering up the bundle of leather.

The arrows that pierced Milora's flesh are mostly devoured by the healing light; what remains of them slide to the ground as Milora looks shakily around her. A moment of thought passes, and then she retrieves the leather gloves left beside her and presses them protectively to her chest as she finally allows herself to curl up and indulge in a deep, selfish sleep.

Benedict is a bit dazed by all that's going on as he turns towards the soot-blackened Seamel and nods his head. "Yeah.... yes of course, I uh... the wagon. We can move'em in the wagon if need be or whatever you need mi'lord."

With a heave, Norran drops the horse away from Ashlynn with Alin, taking a generous gasp for air as he rests his gauntlets on his knees, redfaced as he regains his breath. "Hoo, *huff*, how are you doing, Mistress?" asks Norran of Ashlynn, before blinking somewhat at her. If she's unconcious, it's news to him.

With the 'claymore' Freelander healed, Serath once again stands and looks for the next patient - the 'dagger' Freelander that Norran spoke of. That bull-sigil engraved weapon is soon located, and the Prince goes through the same routine as he has been doing: a kneel, the location of the wound, the tracing of the arrow to the point of impact in Reijek's chest, and the placement of one hand - and then a second atop it, in this case - around the jutting shaft. That Reijek is what one might call 'creepy' is a fact apparently lost to Serath beneath the blood and the darkness and the weight of what he's attempting to do.

"...been better," comes the faint response to Norran's inquiry, proving that Ashlynn has not swooned entirely though she seems to find some difficulty in prying her eyes open and focusing on him. "M'thanks, m'lord...think I'll wait here...'till Vhramis gets word..."

Alin stands out of the way of the prince, turning to offer a grim smile to Katriana. "I think his highness has the matter in hand." He murmurs to her softly, reaching out with a blood-spattered hand to squeeze the Nillu's shoulder. Calling over to Norran, he adds, "Duke Lomasa, Lady Nillu and I would hear your orders on where you want the injured put once the Prince has worked on them."

Benedict spends another few moments looking about himself before he abandons the horse and wagon and heads towards the Duke of Riverhold.

Lyddmull seems, unfortunately, far to engaged in his activity to hear Benedict as burning thatch begins to fall from the roof onto the ground about his feet. He rubs the smoke from his eyes as he moves to attack another section of the roof.

It is quite a sight, there being a horrid wound one moment and then none the next. Vamyla's condition, however, does not change. It seems she has lost too much blood for the repair of the wound to do much other than keep her from losing /more/ blood. Hence, her limp form remains quite pale, and her breathing... has it gotten even /less/ noticable?

All right, so the blackout was momentary for the Zahir. Perhaps the inner Viper just wouldn't let her display quite so much weakness in front of others. Nevertheless, she lies placidly on the cobbles beside Milora, her cheek smushed rather comically against the stone. The Duchess's arms are pinned beneath her, still crossed over her abdomen in a protective gesture. Her eyes flutter open and she blinks slowly as she stares toward the Arbiter's side, watching as the woman moves and displays her rescued health, and musters a faint smile and an audible sigh.

With great effort, and visible pain, Tiris Kahar pushes himself up to a sitting position. He cringes and groans, pressing a wad of bloody silk to his stomach wound, clearly visible now through his tattered shirt. His iron cuirass rests on the ground where he lay a moment ago. Though more or less upright, the Wildcat Duke isn't able to do much more than quietly watch the goings on.

"Master Thatcher has arrived, excellent! Take the offered wagon and move them back to Riverhold, then into a spare guest room. Master Thatcher, if you'd help them move the wounded," suggests Norran, walking over to the dead horse and begging to rifle through the saddlebags for the letters Ashlynn was talking about. "Master Wolfsbane, hm? What word would that be?"


 * The flare on Reijek's hands beneath the blood-soaked hands of the Prince is nothing short of epic. The divine light is bright enough to illuminate both the Prince, the Freelander, and the local area around them both as muscles knit, sinew heals, flesh is restored, and wounds are sealed. The jutting end of the arrow topples over as the shaft within Reijek's body vanishes beneath the wave of light.

At this point, Serath looks somewhat fatigued, to say the least. He spends a moment or two just kneeling in place, panting slightly, before pushing himself back to his feet. Crimson stains his hands, his surcoat, the bracers around his wrists; the title of Prince of the Blood was never more apt. On his feet once more, Serath walks over to the 'cloaked' Noble, and the routine begins again: He kneels, locates the arrow, traces the shaft to the source of impact, places bloody hand upon an equally slick skin and soaked fabric, and calls to the Light for aid.

Benedict is painfully clean compared to many of the people moving about the township right now as he calls out to Norran from a few feet away. "Lord Lomassa, what'n the Light can I do to help mi'lord?"

The slim, distinctive shapes of a courier's satchels lay underneath more typical saddlebags - the letters are neat bundles of missives from various corners of the realm. The nearby blooms of light captures Ashlynn's attention for a moment, and her attention sharpens enough to pick out the weary prince at his work. "His Highness...Kahar..." she mumbles unconsciously before a blink and then two recalls the rest of the Lomasa's words. "Tell him...t'stay where he blessed is...'fore he gets poked...full o' more holes."

Katriana Nillu leans in closer to Alin, sighing quietly. "When time allows, I would very much like to speak to you, Alin," she says softly. "It is of importance to me, before you take your leave, to wherever you may go next." She rests a gloved hand against the Mikin's back for a moment before turning abruptly and moving to Tiris. "Do not move yet, Your Grace..." She kneels and moves to assist in holding the cloth over the wound. "I am so terribly sorry... it is my fault that you were injured. I was not fast enough in drawing a second arrow."


 * The Light again heeds Serath's call; the blood-stained hands of the Avatar of the White Dragon again blossom with argent brilliance as the channeled power of the divine seals the fallen Noble's wounds. Tissue is reshaped and resculpted beneath that silver flare, torn flesh sealed and ripped muscled mended in kind. Light shines in Serath's face, casting silver hues upon the matte-black of the leather of his surcoat and refracting as a glimmer off the golden pommel of the obsidian longsword that sleeps at his side.

As that light fades, and as the Prince removes his hands once more, the fatigue is quite apparent upon his features. He rises again, however, defiant in the face of such physical restrictions, and looks about the proverbial battlefield for his next patient. As luck would have it, that would be Tiris, which brings a small enduring smile to his features.

"I'll be quite all right, my Lady," Tiris rumbles, his voice pained and weary. He stays sitting up, but he lowers his hand to let Katriana tend to his wound. "The fault is mine alone." The Kahar notices his kinsman's approach now and he smiles faintly up to him. "I suppose this is what a silly old man gets for playing at soldier again," he says up to the Prince, cringing sharply in pain.

"Oh, I'll certainly get right to that after he's finished bringing all of you back from the brink of death," notes Norran to Ashlynn with an amused smirk and a tilt of his head, taking the courier bags and slinging them over his shoulder. "Or, you can tell him yourself, if he's still standing when he gets through with everyone." To Benedict, Norran gives a nod. "Help those three with my cloak, dagger and claymore beside them into the wagon, and take them back to Riverhold to recover."

"A wagon? Well, if you're certain." Alin responds in a rumble, moving towards those that Serath has already done his work on-- First, Milora, whom the Mikin approaches with every intent on loading her into a wagon. To Katriana, over one shoulder, he adds, "Don't worry, I'm not going to be going anywhere while assistance is still needed."

Katriana Nillu looks up at Serath as he approaches, her eyes widening just a touch. "Your Highness, I would not seek to be one to offer you orders, but I beg you to rest, at least for a moment, before continuing on. You look exhausted... I am sure his Grace can wait a moment, so you do not succumb before he is completely healed..." Even as she speaks, she presses more firmly against Tiris' wound, adjusting a hand in the slowly dampening cloth.

Benedict nods his head sharply and turns to find the three that he is told about. "As you say mi'lord," he replies before moving towards the first of the three. "And that wagon there," he adds, pointing towards the horse and wagon illuminated by the burning fires. He stops beside Reijik's unconscious form and picks the man up by his shoulders before dragging him back to the empty wagon.

"You've seen worse," Serath returns to the Duke Kahar, his tone dry and his smile generally mirthless as he approaches Tiris. His step isn't quite as brisk, and he looks all but exhausted, but the cold fire in those ethereal eyes is unwavering, and the warriors determination alone keeps him standing. "So have I," he offers to Katriana, nodding to her in thanks for her concern, but dismissing it all the same, "I'll live. Many won't."

"They got you good, old friend," he whispers, kneeling to observe Tiris's claw-marked wound, before promptly placing a hand upon it in turn. "But not good enough, right?"

"Bringing us back...? Vhramis couldn't even find...his way outta the hole in the ground..." Ashlynn husks, obviously not quite tracking the conversation anymore despite her efforts to stay awake, increasingly pale and limp. "Gotta find...'nother horse..."

The Arbitress is in absolutely no position to object. In fact, her sleep appears peaceful and almost childlike, if solemn, and she takes to the warmth of the aging man's body like a kitten. It is unlikely that she realizes that she is possibly the most fortunate of the lot, now in relative health and no longer burdened by the activity of her surroundings.

A tired Lyddmull Seamel looks about the square as he and the other firefighters finish off yet another building. Finding the fires mostly put out now, he discards the hayfork and takes his begrimed self back towards where he began. Wearily, he retrieves cloak and sword, wrapping the former about the latter as he begins to make his way towards where the wounded are being tended.

"It was a stupid mistake, and one that I don't intend to repeat." Tiris exhales lengthily and takes a moment to set himself before nodding over to Serath firmly. "Serath, my friend, thank you," he says earnestly. "Thank the Light." With that, he sets his jaw--ready.

"Oh, hallucinations. I suppose that's not very surprising. But if you don't think I'm a gigantic roasted pheasant in half-plate talking to you right now, I'll give you a horse. He's not of the highest breed, but he's reliable. I keep him about just in case. A Shire, his name's Guster. When you're better." After that, the Duke wanders off now to check on Voreyn.


 * Again, a flame of white accepts Serath's silent call, and again the Light does the work required of it. This time, however, there is no arrow to vanquish, and no jagged iron tip to be devoured by that wave of divinity. There is only warmth, and healing, and the pressure of Serath's palm as it covered a bloody wound that is no longer there when the Prince removes his hand.

"Experience is a harsh teacher, Tiris," he purrs, looking at location that he has healed before meeting the Duke's gaze. "The test comes before the lesson. You'll be fine, and I'm sure you'll make a few more before we're done with this life." With that he stands once more, nodding to Katriana once again, and then turns to head over to a certain forsaken Zahir.

Alin loads Milora into the back of the wagon with as much care as possible before going for the next body, this one of the sleeping Vamyla. In passing Lyddmull, the middle-aged Mikin offers a grim smile. "Could use a hand moving folks to the wagon."

Voreyn's smile lingers as she watches in her limited scope of vision Milora being taken away. The Baroness Lomasa's demeanor looks peaceful enough to the Zahir, and Voreyn closes her eyes as if perhaps she too will sleep. She doesn't, because her luck isn't running for her tonight, but she sighs nonetheless. With a wince, she manages to push her left arm farther, sliding her palm down her stomach and disregarding the pain of crushing her hand between her armor and the ground.

Fingertips brush the weapon still connected to her belt, and the links of Chain of Command clang against each other as the jostling movements cause one coil to slip over the others and hit the cobbles. Ah, the sound is beautiful to the Zahir, and she continues to smile sleepily, eyes still closed.

Katriana Nillu dips her head down as Serath departs, and then looks to Tiris. "Allow me to help you to the wagon, Your Grace," she says quietly. "I believe, between the two of us, you can hobble on over, and one of the men can help you in, if you need it." she rises slowly into a crouch, eying the Wildcat Duke apprehensively. "And please do not insist on behaving like a Duke, and insisting you are fine and can do it yourself. His Grace, the Duke Lomasa could be stubborn, but I warn you, I can be even more stubborn. He used to lose his battles to me quite frequently."

The soot-covered nobleman nods quickly, jogging to the wagon to put down his burden there before turning about. His eyes first light on the familiar Zahir not far away. He moves swiftly towards her, despite his impending exhaustion. Crouching down beside her, he looks the noblewoman over quickly. "How do you fair this warm night, Your Grace," he asks, his tone far more cheerful than his face as he reaches down to gently press a hand to the place where the arrow meets her back. He winces sympathetically, not noticing the approaching Prince or Duke.

As Norran walks toward Voreyn, he offers a smile and a nod to the approaching Serath. "Sorry to demand so much of you, Prince Kahar. Perhaps if we'd defended East Leg better, the wounded would not be so widespread...beyond the Duchess here, we found a freelander woman under a horse. Dead, I'm afraid, a fine beast - the horse, that is. Woman's still alive, she's a courier that I think you might know, she was asking for you. Or she was delusional. Either one. Knows Master Wolfsbane, at the least. Baron Mikin and I moved the horse from her, but it's all we can do for now."

Benedict returns from the wagon and again takes up one of those that are unresponsive. Taking hold of Subhan's body under the shoulders, he again hauls the Lomasa noblewoman towards the wagon with as much care as he can while hurrying.

The Wildcat Duke sighs contentedly as the Light consumes and mends his wound. He is lost for a few moments afterwards, and by the time he opens his eyes, Serath has already set off for Voreyn. Tiris looks back to Katriana suddenly and gives her a faint, pale smile. "I may be a Duke, but I am also an old man, and an injured one... Please, my Lady, help me to my feet." He offers one arm to her, and picks Azuredge up off the ground with his other.

The Prince offers a tired and subtle nod in reply to Norran as the Duke barrages him with a fragmented status report, slowing to a halt at Norran's side as he regards the fallen Zahir Duchess. "A snake on the ground," he remarks, the comment unbidden but lacking malice. If anything his tone is ironic, and he kneels all the same, again going through the motions.

"A wounded one at that; though I don't really think you're quite the Viper my ancestors would claim you to be, and I'm beyond such name calling, and far too tired to care about them even if I wasn't. Are you awake, Duchess?"

With Vamyla set down in the wagon, Alin heads back to the group of injured, searching for another person to take to the wagon. His gaze falls upon the unconcious tailor, and with flagging energy, the Mikin picks up yet another burdensome figure.

Katriana Nillu chuckles a touch and nods, carefully arranging Tiris' arm around the back of her neck. "Alright, Your grace... on the count of three, we will rise together," she explains. "Be careful, though... I would not wish you to collapse just after the Prince healed you." She smiles, "I owe you my life, Your Grace, so please, Katriana will do, at least in these tense and saddened times." She pauses, taking a breath. "Alright... one... two... three..." She hauls herelf to her feet, one hand on the Kahar's back, ready to freeze at any moment, should Tiris protest. Milora has partially disconnected.

"I'd very much like some hot tea," Voreyn replies sleepily, opening her eyes to pin the Prince with a gaze of awareness despite her condition, and her voice is more or less a mere whisper. "I am quite awake, Your Highness, as this position is not conducive to sleep." Indeed, lying on one's stomach with one's arms pinned beneath them haphazard is definitely uncomfortable. "And, perhaps, I am quite tired of bleeding. Snakes do not like arrows, especially ones that ruin their fine armor."

"You'll get all that you want after we get you back to Riverhold, Duchess Zahir. It's the least I can offer of hospitality after the rather rude greeting you've received," offers Norran with a wide grin in direction of the Zahir Duchess, standing back as he watches the Prince do his work.

Tiris takes a moment to ready himself, and on Katriana's count, he struggles up from the ground. He rises with the aid of the Nillu on one side, and his sword on the other. Vertical, but rather taxed by the ordeal, Tiris stops a moment to return Azureedge to its scabbard. "Thank you, Lady Katriana," he says to her, his voice soft and tired.

"I assure you that Wildcats and Bulls are equally unfond of pointy objects, Duchess Zahir," the Prince offers, placing a hand coated in the blood of the others that he's healed upon Voreyn's shoulder with the jutting shaft of the arrow resting in the crook of his thumb forefinger. He places his other hand atop that in turn, the dirty wooden shaft of the Wildling missile now resting between both thumbs.

"Norran," he asks before calling upon the Light, "When you were in Mikin Woods, what did you do with the bodies of the Wildlings?"

Lyddmull Seamel's hand retreats from the noblewoman's wound as a familiar voice sounds nearby. "Your Highness," he says quietly, inclining his head as he moves back a bit to give the Prince room. He bites his lip quietly before turning up towards Norran, offering him the same gesture, though more slowly. "Your Grace," he says. His attention returns quickly to the wounded Duchess and the Prince tending her, however, his eyes resting on the impaling arrow.

Katriana Nillu smiles slightly, slowly guiding Tiris towards the wagon. "It is my pleasure, Your Grace," she replies. "The wagon is not far, and then you can rest to your heart's content... His Grace, the Duke Lomasa, I am sure, will treat you with the best possible care once at Riverhold."

"What else? Left them to rot. I'll admit, it's the first time I actually /killed/ a wildling. A black one, atleast..." Norran suddenly frowns as the realization hits him, then grins innocently as he reaches a hand up to scratch at his beard. "Let me wonder aloud, Prince Kahar...I wasn't /supposed/ to let them rot, was I? Hah. Well! How about that?" he chuckles nervously.

Benedict helps gather the Lomasa noblewoman into the back of the wagon as the illuminating fires continue to die down. Again he returns to help move the injured and this time he approaches Vamyla's unconsciouse form. "So many hurt," he says to nobody in particular as he stoops down and gathers the woman up to move her much as he has the last two people.

"I'll try not to be a burden for long," Tiris says. He paces along carefully at Kat's side. Heavily armored and very tired, he could go down rather easily. Through Kat's support and his own fortitude, the Duke Kahar manages to stay up and moving towards the wagon. "Get someone to collect my breastplate, please?" He requests lightly.


 * The Light heeds Serath's call once again, but this time the flare of argent illumination is limited to a soft glow. The bleeding stops, but the wound is still quite apparent when the Prince moves his hands away from Voreyn's back. Equally, the arrow still juts out. Blame it on fatigue or blame it on the Duchess being a Zahir - whatever the reason, it would seem Voreyn has been dealt a bad hand. No pun intended.

The Prince sighs as the Light decides to give the Duchess a raw deal, looking up at Lydmull in turn before asking, "If you'd be kind enough to help the Duchess?" He glances back upon the prone Zahir, sighs, stands, and shakes his head at Norran. "Black Wildlings are creatures of Shadow, Sir Knight. You need to let fire consume them, lest they heal and rise again."

Sadly, Vamyla Robin will not survive to recieve aid in Riverhold. Even before the Prince had gotten to her, she had lost too much blood to be helped. Shortly after she is lain in the wagon, the heavy brunette woman breathes her last weak, shallow breath. So subtle a death is this that it could easily be overlooked until later, and considering she has no family to mourn her, it could be argued that her loss will be noticed by very few.

"I will go back for it as soon as I have safely seen you to the wagon, Your Grace," Katriana promises, smiling up to the Duke. "Those of us still unharmed are at your beck and call. You see, there have to be /some/ advantages to being injured, or no one would ever let themselves be hurt, and then healers would be out of a job," she jokes lightly.

The Seamel looks up at Serath and nods quickly before turning to look at the arrow again, not seeming to know quite what to do about it. "Should I break the shaft off, Your Highness?" he asks quietly. As the man speaks again, the young nobleman's eyes snap up to the Wildcat, fear evident in them. "They will what?" he asks, near-panic gripping him, "But they're right by Night's Edge! How long would it take?" Suddenly remembering himself, the Seamel winces a bit before adding, "Your highness..."

"Thank you, Your Highness. That is /very/ good to know!" Norran rubs at the back of his head, laughing at the very humor of it all, of course. As Lyddmull begins panicking, Norran points over to the clump of rotting flesh over to the east. "They're over there. Those were the two wildlings I charged. Apparently, they came back."

Benedict draws the back of his hand across his face as he turns from the wagon and sighs. "An' here I thought it would be a nice quiet evenin'," he says as he starts back to see who else is in need of assistance to the wagon.

Tiris smiles, but he cannot seem to work up the enthusiasm for a chuckle. "Thank you, Lady Katriana," he murmurs. Tiris arrives at the wagon, and with great effort, manages to get himself up onto it. He looks around the town darkly and, with nothing else to do or say, just shakes his head.

"They WERE by Night's Edge," the Prince corrects, adding to Norran's elaboration as he glances upon Lyddmull with neither respect nor contempt, with his voice conveying nothing but fatigue to explain the look. "Now they're somewhere over there, as the Duke claims. Quite a few somewheres, if I know Sir Norran as well, as I think I do." Serath sighs in the wake of that elaboration, looking down upon the Duchess once more, clearly vexed at the Light's refusal to heal her. "Sara isn't going to like this," he mutters, kneeling once more, "And I'm breaking a few rules by trying this again. Duchess, this may sting a little." He places his hands upon Voreyn's back in a manner identical to his last attempt.

Katriana Nillu dips down into a low bow to Tiris, "I will return with your effects momentarily, Your Grace," she murmurs, and off she trots, bow bouncing up and down on her back. She retrieves the bloody and, most likely sweaty, armor of the Kahar, and starts to lug it back to the wagon, her pace much slower this time around.

Unburdened now, Alin strolls over to Norran and Serath, wiping the gore from his hands onto his armor, leaving smeared streaks of rapidly drying blood. He regards Norran unsmilingly and finally queries, gravelly baritone grave, "It's a good thing someone finds this funny. Your fiancee's in the wagon with the rest of the wounded, Duke Lomasa, in case you wondered."

Lyddmull seems like he may have been at the point of getting up and running the whole way back to the Forest District be Norran's words hold him. "Thank you, Your Grace," he says quietly, the gratitude and relief in his voice nothing if not genuine. He returns his gaze to the Prince and his efforts, relaxing as he waits to see what it is he will have to do.


 * There's a crackle and a snarl of forced energy as Serath makes a second attempt at healing the Duchess. It's an attempt that the unspoken dictates of Light and Shadow should not allow. An attempt that breaks the enigmatic rules that govern the use of the weaves both divine and arcane. The very same rules that usually limit healing attempts to one person per day, and ignore calls for second attempts.


 * Yet Serath is the Avatar of the White Dragon, and is apparently capable of breaking those rules on rare occasions. The Light heeds his plea, follows his compassion, and sets about healing the wounded Duchess. The protruding shaft of the arrow topples as the lodged sections are dissolved by the blossom of argent beneath Serath's palms. Flesh heals, muscles repair themselves, and what once a serious wound is wiped away beneath the Prince's crossed hands.

But not without a price: as Serath moves his hands away, he does so quickly. Tenrils of light smoke seem to curl from his fingers and palms, and the Prince himself backpedals rather quickly, growling as he staggers a step or two, clasping his hands together in pain. "Light... damn it... son of a... could have warned... damn, damn, damn, OW."

The magical healing touch that Voreyn was expecting doesn't come - not quite. She frowns slightly and opens her eyes farther, fighting back unconsciousness to peer out of the corner of her eye at the men above her. "What?" she asks as Lyddmull inquires about breaking the arrow, and the Prince's words that follow cause her to stir a bit uncomfortably. "Don't!--" she begins by way of protest, but naturally the words have little effect as Serath has made up his mind.

And blissfully so, for as the wound closes and the arrow disintegrates, the pain eases to nil and Voreyn sighs, able now to roll over more and free her left arm from beneath her, just in time to see the Prince stagger backwards. Oh, a pox on the Zahir house now for sure if her wound causes him any damage. "Your Highness," she groans breathily, struggling to raise herself up as if perhaps she could help.

''Return to Season 6 (2007)