A forsaken God in exile, seeking to find his purpose.
A soldier with a questionable past.
Destiny picks the two most unlikely pieces upon the board and brings them together, when the end of the world seems to loom over the horizon. Their paths cross...
"Right. Then he says he's supposed to receive a package from Valston city. I ask for his name," said Crowder, "says he's Brianus Karyk. It's on the list alright, but when I cross it out, I receive no package from the pile like I usually do, by the telekinesis spell our company puts on 'em."
He continued somewhat boastfully, "Now I ain't getting fooled by just anybody. The whole thing about this guy seems fishy, fishier than the--uh--fish market in the capital's lower district. Anyway, I begin to tell him I'll have to report him for false identity. Barely got the words out before he whacks me on the head with the pommel of his sword."
He mimicked a swinging blow to his bandaged head, which the healer stopped with a gentle hand. "They get the idea, son."
"Apologies, doctor. So as I was saying, I pretend to be dead, and this guy begins to rummage through the cart like crazy. He must not have found whatever he was after, because he soon gives up, curses in Velan, and rides off into the woods," said Crowder, "and I get up and run like hell."
"Cursing in Velan, eh? Not a Drisian guy, then, like you were saying earlier," Klo said, turning to Farren after he had finished. Giving her a nod, Farren fell back on the bed and began swinging her good leg distractedly. Her hand itched to get the package open, which now Rendarr kept securely tucked under his cloak. What could've the historian sent to commander Karyk that's so important?
"We've always been on good terms with Veland," Rendarr said.
"I'm not suggesting the entire kingdom is involved. All this could be for personal reasons, for all we know," Klo said, pacing in the space between the beds. "We need to let Commander Karyk know as soon as we can."
"I better go find Lieutenant Evander. He must know where the commander could be," said Rendarr.
"Very well. Thank you, Mr. Crowder, for your cooperation," Klo said, "the Dark Saints headquarters will be informed, and they'll come receive you. I'll see to that."
Crowder nodded, although he looked terrified at the idea.
"Meet me outside after you're all patched up," Klo said to Farren before taking her leave, followed by Rendarr.
"As you command, madam," said Farren with a cheeky wave. She grimaced as Eliora now approached her, putting on leather gloves etched with runes, specially crafted for the art of intensive healing.
"You never learn, do you?" said Eliora, "always running into trouble; as if being a resistant wasn't enough." She brought her gloved hands to her bruised foot, gone all black and blue at this point, and gripped it at the ankle.
"A resistant?" Crowder asked, now sitting cross-legged on his bed.
"Mhm. Common magic don't work on me, ya see. Nor do any preparations brewed by magic. Potions, concoctions, medicines, some alcohols even-you name it. Unless they're really strong."
That was the price she had to pay in exchange of her heightened pain tolerance.
Because of her deal with Atruer, she'd turned into a resistant; a rare mutation that made folk immune to most kinds of common magic. The condition could be inherited, or acquired.
The healers always assumed she was among the former. Farren thought better of correcting them.
"But for someone in the army," said Crowder, "being a resistant must be hard."
"Tell me about it!" Farren squeezed her eyes shut as the first wave of intensive healing magic shot through her bruised leg, white-hot and burning. "In a battlefield, if you're a resistant, you get treated last. That's the rule. The healer must preserve their energy for the majority, and the intensive healing required for a resistant tires the healer. Why waste your sorcery on one soldier while you can save ten others?"
"You don't need to worry about that," Eliora snapped, "nobody's dyin' on my watch."
The old lady turned to Crowder. "When the Lieutenant got a spear driven all the way through the shoulder, everybody said the lad was done for. And look at him now, walking around as though nothing happened."
As the healing magic worked its way through her injured leg, the bruises faded. Farren clenched her teeth, sweat drops beaded her face despite the cold wind rattling the windows. Regular healing was painful enough, but this intensive healing was on a different plane altogether.
However, Eliora's work was precise; a honed blade in the hands of a skilled swordsman. Healing was the only branch of magic without a patron God, born purely of humankind's inherent sense of compassion. But sometimes Farren thought the old lady was fuelled by rage alone.
Crowder sat there on the bed, looking indecisive for the whole time Eliora healed Farren.
"You know what, Corporal," he said at last, "I think this job's jinxed. I'll have to find a new one."
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