Grim Views

Battle-Mender Kharthak, Lazarus Graysong, and Valindria the Tempest hurried to the Crossroads, descending on the trade-point with utmost haste from an urgent call for medical aid. In front of the inn, several individuals and bystanders stared at a bloody sight. An elf bearing no tabard lay groaning on the gravel. His knee was splintered in an unusual way, fat and blood oozing from it. Kharthak leapt from his mount and rushed to aid the injured elf. Kneeling, he looked up at High Inquisitor Khorvis in bewilderment. Kharthak asked, “Who- What happened here?”

Graysong stepped up behind them. “Oh, hello,” he says, declaring his presence to the other Grim. The elf rested stretched out before them, muscling out only a few words. He clutched his mangled right leg. Graysong looked over Kharthak’s shoulder and noticed the elf laying there. Some of the bystanders cringed, nodding with respect for the fallen before departing to their own matters. Graysong cleared his way through the gathered as they turned to head out, no longer bewildered with the excitement of whatever must have just happened as they departed. When he reached the elf, Graysong tossed him a Healthstone.

The elf garbled a blend of consciousness and saliva in slurred speech, “U'phol alah terro.”

“That may help,” encouraged Graysong, shifting his attention to Khorvis. He asked the High Inquisitor, “Shall I capture his soul for now?”

Kharthak winced at the thought of using consuming magic so early and glared at the warlock. “Unless you have bandages,” he chided, “Nothing whacky you twisted mystic.”

Graysong flinched, looking deeply offended. “Fine,” he mumbled, agitated. “Should you be on the precipice of death I shall watch your soul float morosely away into the nether.” The shaman raised a closed fist in a motion for the warlock to be silent.

Khorvis shifted his weight and shrugged in response to Graysong’s question after the dispute. “He did not lose his tongue. He may speak for himself.” He turned, nodding at Valindria as she approached.

“O Do,” blithered the wounded elf. Valindria nodded back to Khorvis, then looked down at the situation. He groaned once more, “O…” Graysong glared at Kharthak, making no motion to help. The elf coughed, gurgling and choking on a bit of blood, forgetting his mother tongue. Graysong turned his attention back towards Kiannis, seemingly curious.
“I hear arguing when there should be mending,” Valindria stated angrily, shifting towards the elf.

“I need…,” the elf whined, spitting out blood, “This leg...”

“Elf,” Graysong stated flatly, “Do you desire your soul being stored or not?”

“He breathes yet,” Kharthak reminded the warlock.

“And fear not for any Grim souls,” Valindria reassured them, “I will caretake any that try to leave here.”

“I,” the elf began, seeming to make a request, “I need... to move.”

“Lazarus,” commanded Khorvis, “Have one of your servants carry this fool into the inn.”

Graysong motioned for a bulky Wrathguard, who stood seemingly passive until just now, to step forward and grab the body. “Very well,” he says coolly as he made his motion.

Shifting about on the ground, the elf acted mildly delirious. Whether or not he was actually talking more to himself than anything, he seemed hardly aware of the people around him, if at all.

“Azradeth,” Graysong told the Wrathguard as he stood bluntly in place. “Be a dear and carry this bleeding one into the inn.” Azradeth looked angry, but nonetheless complied.

As the Wrathguard reached to grab the elf by his arms and drag him into the inn. Kharthak scrambled to his feet. “Not yet,” He warned, still assessing where to proceed with all of the damage, “We have to tighten up the wound!” Shrugging, Azradeth ignored the orc and does as Lazarus bade.

Graysong seemed mildly pleased. “Demons,” he muttered to himself, seemingly contemplative.
“The difference between control and freedom,” Valindria contributed as she watched the shaman follow the Wrathguard as it carried the elf inside.

“Kiannis did be a deserter,” announced Khorvis flatly. “I did have my axe to his neck, but a fellow orc warrior, stranger to us, recognized our tabard. He did urge me to stay my blade. Kiannis now bears my mercy.”
When they all were inside, a bleeding Kiannis was sprawled out on a bed. For good measure, Kharthak, spat on Azradath. “You risk his leg, cretin.” The Wrathguard merely sneered. The demon returned to its master’s side and Graysong calmly pat it as it dematerialized. The shaman shifted his attention towards the priest. “Valindria,” he said hastily, “Their isn't much time. Do you have any anesthetics?” Khorvis crossed his arms and watches the finger wigglers wiggle.

“I have better than that, shaman,” replied Valindria. Kharthak raised a brow, skeptical. Graysong stood by the bed, still appearing rather put off at the shaman. He folded his arms and observed. Valindria leaned forward and places a hand on Kiannis' hip. Unsure of how Valindria planned to proceed, the shaman grabbed the bottom half of the elf’s disjointed leg and held it at a more natural angle. That way, when she healed the muscle fibers, they would be restored in their correct place. As the menders shifted and maneuvered themselves, Kiannis began to heave and sweat with increasing intensity. His eyes lulled into the back of his head and he started to become pale. His vitals were still there, but weak.
“Oh, dear,” Graysong chimed merrily, “I love a good dying!”

Kharthak glanced at Kiannis' forehead. He hastily reached into his medicine pouch and unfurled an already remarkably bloody cloth. He wiped Kiannis' sweat up into the towel, leaving it to lie on his face.

The priestess leaned forward more, speaking intently to Kiannis. “There is a price for desertion,” she told him. Whether or not he heard in his current state made no difference. “I could call your spirit back to your broken body if I chose,” she reminded, “As a reminder that the Grim's reach is long, but I leave the bloodshed to Bloodstar.” Graysong stared at the bleeding elf with curiosity.

Watching Valindria’s movement carefully, Kharthak slid his hand back into his medicine pouch and pulled out a vial of water. “Val, perhaps we can talk consequences soon? We might want to take care of the situation at hand to make sure he lives to see that,” he advised. The shaman uncorked the vial and poured cool liquid out for the headcloth to soak up.
Graysong looked at Khorvis with an expression of curiosity. “Did he not follow the Mandate,” he asked.
Valindria leveled her eyes to Kharthak. “Death is another beginning, shaman,” she reminded him, “Do you not know that?”

“Deserter,” heaved Khorvis, “Came crawling back. He may have a second chance.”

Kiannis' gaze returned to him and he lifted his head as best he could, choking on a few more words. The shaman turned his attention from Kiannis to Valindria. “Death makes one useless,” he replied, “That's why we talk about the ancestors' ideas, not practicality.”

“Tempest, Kharthak,” Khorvis interceded, “Just keep him alive. It does not need to be neat.”

“And in many things on this world,” Valindria added somberly, “There are lessons everywhere.” Kharthak glanced from Valindria to Khorvis and nodded with acknowledgment.

“O shar O ishura shar anu nor,” moaned Kiannis. Graysong continued to observe, watching Kharthak. Valindria proceeded, reaching down and sticking her fingers directly in the most serious of the injuries.

“Alive and useful,” muttered Khorvis to the menders and Graysong, expressing his desire to keep Kiannis mostly healthy, “To the Mandate as more than a sandbag.” Kiannis’ face contorted in agony as another scream broke his lips. He reached up and towards the woman’s arm, but isn’t quite strong enough to get there.
Flustered and unamused, Kiannis shouts, “T'ASE'MUSHAL!”

Kharthak flinched, holding the elf’s knee up on the top of the foot of the bed. “We have to keep the blood flowing primarily in the main organs. Val, do you have anything to keep it together?” He shuttered as the elf screamed in Thallasian. “Actually, we might be better off if he passes out first.”

Valindria lifted her other hand, calling her power to manifest. Placing it on Kiannis' arm, she began the process of mending his body. “No,” she assured the shaman, “He will stay awake.”

Kharthak nodded cautiously, “Proceed as you will.”

“Pain means you're alive,” Graysong explained with a giggle, approaching the elf “Such a delicious sensation isn't it? Then again, I am dead and feel pain at times. Oh well.” Kiannis nearly spouted off in Thallasian again, unable to muster the strength.

Valindria poured more of her strength into the wounded man, eventually illuminating his body in the same glow that emanated from her. Graysong cautiously stepped away from the priest.

“Lazarus,” Khorvis said, shifting his attention as the undead backed away from the priest’s mending, “I do wonder sometimes if your kind feel agony as the living do.”

Kharthak blinked twice as he watches Valindria healing, suspicious. From a safe distance, Graysong eyed Valindria up and down. Valindria slowly withdrew her fingers from the injury in his knee as it began to heal, the knitting of tendons and flesh pushing her out. Kiannis spoke once more, “Diel dor su t'as'e O shano diel ethala dorini Ash.”

Graysong replied to Khorvis, “I have never felt pain quite the same as I once did to be be truthful. Admittedly before my passing I was scarred from harsh lessons with the fel and had little sensation left anyhow.”

“But… I,” uttered Kiannis, “Chose… to stand, and fight… And defend my honor… If that is a thing.”

Valindria lowered her head with a soft sigh, gently pulling her fingertips from his injury, leaving the skin red and angry like a sunburn. Kharthak reached towards Kiannis' forehead and wiped more sweat off the brow. He muttered, “That is. Your honor is your life, lest we have no ancestors or glory to look up to. Remember that. Stay in this. Breathe. Future generations depend on it.”

Graysong looked at the priestess again. Khorvis maneuvered closer to Graysong, “After the felmancers' operation, pain too changed for me.”

“However,” Graysong said, turning to Khorvis, “The light does not... quite approve of my kind normally.”

Valindria paused before looking at her handiwork, tsk-ing softly when she sees the scarring, a crisscross of darker red lines. Kiannis looked from Valindria to his knee. His sanity returning as the agony and thought of dehabilitation fades. He frowns at his knee, looking at it somberly. Kharthak withdraws the towel and folds it, placing it comfortably back within his medicine pouch while placing the back of his palm over Kiannis' head to make sure he's still got blood flowing.

“Bloodstar,” Valindria chimed, “You do your job perhaps too well.” Khorvis shrugged.

“Be sparing with your numbing herbs, Kharthak,” Khorvis told the shaman, “This one needs to remember.”

The shaman replied, “Aye, High Inquisitor, I shall do as am called. But if he becomes entirely delirious, he might not remember anything.”

The priest asked the warrior, “I could remove even these angry reminders, but perhaps it is best I leave them.” Graysong looked at Khorvis with interest.

Khorvis asked, “We will leave him to rest for now, aye?”

“Yes, indeed,” Lazarus answered. “The Fel can heal albeit without kindness.”

Valindria nodded her thanks to Karthak for his help. She straightened, and then backs away after a moment, her face looking more wan than usual. “If you'll pardon me a moment,” she excused herself.

Khorvis grunted, “You three have my thanks. I do know that he may seem a mess now, but he could be a useful gun.” Kharthak nodded.

Valindria fainted, falling on a rug on the inn’s floor.

“Oh, Fel,” Khorvis stated in shock. Kharthak blinked at Valindria.

Graysong straightened himself and glanced at the orcs defensively. “I didn't do it!”

Kharthak turned to Khorvis. “Probably a weak stomach, no?”

“Help me get her into a bed,” Khorvis requested, lifting the woman by her shoulders.

Graysong went to her feet and carried her legs to a slab of stone with a rug on it. It had been carved straight out of the inn’s concrete and plaster blend of a wall. Graysong studied the design, questioning the orc's idea of a bed, but says nothing. He turned his attention towards Kharthak, “I shall remember you, shaman.”

“The effort must have exhausted her,” said Khorvis, thinking out loud, “And beyond that, she battles in the Citadel.”

Kharthak retrieved a Healing Stream Totem and uncorked it. He placed an incense candle at the top and lit it by taking two flint stones on the gravelly hearth's floor and flicking them together, creating a pleasant, controlled flame to spark. “I shall remember you, too,” he replied to Graysong while placing the flintsones back on the hearth, “We must fight for the same goals, albeit in different ways.” He balanced the totem on the squarely on the ground, adding, “However, I find your lust for absorbing others... disturbing.”

The warlock blinked, bitterly replying, “I find your lack of faith in your brother... disturbing.”

Kiannis had been staring at his knee for a long time. Lost in thought? A daze? Visions perhaps? He blinked, once and the 'spell' was broken. He looked over at the grouping and pulled himself up to sit.

Kharthak carried on his discussion with Graysgon. “As long as you demonstrate the value of your actions, I shall maintain confidence. You will find that I am always one to give people a chance.”

Khorvis nodded, “We all use the tools that our forebears gave us.”

Kharthak glanced over at Kiannis. “He seems to be slightly more conscious.”

“Your actions speak differently than your mouth. A curious predicament,” Graysong bantered to Kharthak. “Good 'eve,” he said, signaling an intention to leave the inn.

Kiannis returned the shaman’s look with a somewhat pale nod.

Graysong turned away from the shaman and saluted the High Inquisitor.

“Peace, Lazarus,” Khorvis told him.

“Peace,” Kharthak added.

Graysong finished, “Through annihilation, High Inquisitor.”

Graysong-Ravenholdt looked at Kiannis. “Don't die,” he warned, leaving the inn.

Kiannis felt Khorvis' eyes on him. He looked to his right and met his gaze, nodding at the undead once as he goes.

The shaman snickered at Graysong’s final comment towards Kiannis. He approached the wounded elf, reinforcing the statement, he mentioned, “That would have been very bad for you.”

“You may thank your Grim comrades,” Khorvis said as he approached with a content resolution, “Supplicant Kiannis, Priestess Valindria spent a good deal of her power patching up your foolishness.”

Kiannis gave one short nod to the warrior, “And to you, Lasher, for your mercy.” The High Inquisitor snorted with enough force to rip open a Khorium Vein.

“Kiannis, had we found you here, carousing the merchandise of these Crossroads,” asked Kharthak.

The elf replied, “I had... received a tip... from a Warspear grunt who's proved useful in the past.”

“To do what,” he inquired.

Kiannis shifted in his bed, lending more attention to the shaman. “For information,” he explained, “I had caught wind of the Inquisition, but... I didn’t know where it was to be held… I had sent a letter of intent, but... the Shadowblade urged me to show... And I remembered the words of... Khorvis... Or the bubbly troll... That the Grim would not seek me, that I should seek to them.”

“Well, he bloody well found me,” Khorvis interjected.

The hunter added, “Khorvis' offer of a blind eye was an easy in to... well... sneak around and track him...”

“He speaks of repentance,” the shaman said, turning to Khorvis, “Surely that is worth something to you, is it?
Khorvis turned to Kharthak and arose to his full height of over seven feet.

“He has his life,” answered the High Inquisitor, “Do you question my judgement? I can always reverse my decision.”
Valindria sat up, slowly. Khorvis moved to Valindria's side.

Kharthak blinked. “Hmph. No? Sort of. I'm merely asking a question about how your judgment works.”
“Swift,” answered Valindria, “And severe.”

Kharthak approached the priestess, “It has been effective.”

“That is why he is High Inquisitor,” she nodded.

Khorvis added, “It is my judgement that I will not allow comrades such as the Tempest to be left without a gun at their back.”

Kharthak jabbed Khorvis with his elbow, seemingly joking, “Look at what it's done to you, Val.”

Valindria tilted her head, “Hm?”

“I jest that Khorvis' judgment has tested you pretty well this day. That is all, Val, nothing more,” replied the shaman.
Valindria chuckles, softly. She stands up, feeling confused and slightly off balance. “Bloodstar would have to try harder than that.”

“It would be an impressive display, no one doubts it,” Kharthak reaffirmed.

The High Inquisitor shifted back towards the elf. “But Kiannis returns to us, willful.” Kiannis nodded, acknowledging the second chance. “The score do be settled.”

Kiannis turned so that his legs hung from the bed onto the floor. He watches the interaction with quiet contemplation, gingerly rubbing his knee…

Kharthak and Valindria looked at Kiannis. “As it happens,” Valindria explained to the hunter, “I don't stick my fingers into the wounds of others for enjoyment. It's actually the most direct method of repairing deep internal damage.”

He replied, “Horrid though it was, I seem… intact. Which is a blessing...” Valindria lifts up a hand, but the glow is dim now, it vanishes into a simple waving motion. Kiannis continued, “I am in your debt, priestess.” He turned towards Kharthak, “And yours, orc.”

Valindria added, “I will hope you have come to a greater understanding now, that if this must end the other way, Khorvis is swift at your end.”

“We might be willing to aid you now, even grant you a second chance, but be wary and meek,” advised Kharthak, “Your former inquisitor remains.”

“This is just the first step on that road,” replied Kiannis. “It was he. If the royal hasn't dulled my memory that badly.”
“The next step do be your Trial of Combat, once you can stand on that leg,” Khorvis informed him.

“Don't be a fool, Kiannis,” furthered Valindria, “And you should be fit for your Trial in a week. No sooner. If you reopen that wound before it's fully healed, the next time will be less pleasant, because I might leave a pebble in it.”

Kharthak turned back towards the elf, “Besides, you need to heal quickly so you don't lose practice with your gun.”

Kiannis nodded at the shaman. He continued, “I suspect you'll be needing it, how shall I put it, a lot.”

Kiannis raised an eyebrow, holding back a sly grin. “Knock the rust off,” he said, “indeed... But... well… ... Maybe you're right… I’ll need to be better, if I'm to be of any use to anyone.” Kiannis eyed Khorvis for a moment, before returning to the healers. He pressed up from the bed, testing out the strength of his legs.

“Well,” inquired Khorvis, “Do you question the Tempest's work?”

Kiannis stood steadily enough, tapping his foot a time or two. He shook his head. “No,” he replied, “Though it’ll be a slow week indeed...”

“Very good,” Khorvis jaunted with cheerful contentment. “Come next Inquisition, your first trial will be prepared. Heal quickly, yours will be far more difficult than any of the newbloods'. As you say, Inquisitor.”

Kharthak turned towards the High Inquistor. “Khorvis,” he said, “I think I may retire here at the crossroads and browse the commodities in the morning.”

The High Inquisitor nodded, “Aye, I will be back in the Hall. Mok'rah, Grim.”

Kharthak saluted Khorvis with respect. Valindria nodded to Kiannis as she also departed. Kiannis limped towards the exit, greatly favoring his good leg.