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[Erikal]

76th of Fall, 515 AV. 8th Bell. War Storm Pavilion

Erikal stood in tight formation with male and female warriors of the War Storm Pavilion, mimicking the strict motions of the spear in which their champion executed. After one exhausting exercise sequence, the students were blessedly allowed a moment's respite for breathing to return to normal. The young horseman drew away damp brown strands of hair from a sweaty face, his bare chest heaving from the exertion. Whilst he composed himself, he overheard a group of Drykas next to him talking excitedly over the low rumble of thunder that threatened yet another rainy day in the overcast sky.

"Look you there! Slaves!"
"So weak and skinny."
"I heard the old nag say something about Zith!"

Erikal moved closer to get a better look at the group that had caused such a commotion in the training grounds. He saw half a dozen frail-looking individuals clustered close together. The healthiest among them; a dirty-faced bearded man, was being questioned by a champion and what looked like a Yakhtai of the Watch. The man looked animated and had some grasp of Pavi as Erikal distinctly heard the word "Zith" uttered most vehemently. A few of the bunch looked barely able to accept clay vessels of water, their shaking limbs lacking the strength to complete even that simple task.

Erikal shook his head and spat into the grass. Every Drykas learned from a very young age to despise and fear Zith. They were abominations with wings that preyed on families when the sun slept. Though Erikal had never actually seen one personally, he had heard many stories told around the campfire of others who had. The message was clear how horrifying the experiences were. Zith were known to have no compassion for their victims and woe to those who were captured for servitude. Erikal made a sour face at that. He would rather die fighting than be a pack mule for their burdens, or even worse, a play thing for their amusement. Apparently these wretched souls had learned that experience all too well.

Scanning the tents and milling crowds dispersed between, he spotted Tselias gazing toward him and offered her a comical greeting in Grassland Sign which could be roughly translated to mean: Hello friend, you look sick today! He grinned and motioned her over, though not sure if she would get in trouble with her champion of the sword teacher, who looked prepared to scold his students for being distracted by the 'Zith victims'.

[Tselias Starcrest]

"Again!"

Sweat peetered on Tselias' brow, and slid down her neck. Her wild mess of red curls was dark and damp along her face and neck. She lifted the sword once more, to the complaints of her arms, and cocked it at the ready position behind her head. Deliberately, she stepped forward and swung the sword over her head in a circle, gaining momentum, before landing a backhanded blow on the back of the straw dummy's neck. The head limped downward mopily.

The instructor nodded in approval at the strength of the blow, before returning to his pacing, eyes never glancing to Tselias. "Again!" he said ritually.

"I think he's dead, sir," She called through heaved breaths, looking at the mangled straw dummy. The instructor stroked the thick braids in his beard, and looked at the limping dummy, before he offered a scoff. "If he'd had a sword, you'd be dead an hour ago."

As the instructor turned from her, she made a face in his direction. Before she was done with her mockery, she heard a low whine from ten yards up. Makra, her dog, was eyeing the twigs holding the dummy together with increasing interest - most likely sorting out a way to grab one without his owner noticing. Tselias sighed, found a stick by her feet and tossed it to Makra. His tail gave a light wag against the grass as he gnawed at it, tongue lolling out.

"There's another dummy on the other side of the yard," The instructor continued. "We'll put this one in for repairs. But we're not finished! Your strikes still feel too rehearsed. They need to be quicker, more natural."

Tseli was preparing a smarmy retort, when she heard a hustle behind her.

"Look you there! Slaves!"
"So weak and skinny."
"I heard the old nag say something about Zith!"

At the mention of Zith, Tselias' head spun, and her eyes became wide at the pack of survivors that hustled in. Their shriveled bodies hugged the ground, as though raising their head would kill them from exertion. Some other students dropped what they were doing and went to the water vessels to bring them over.

"Lira!" another student cried out next to her, and rushed toward one of the victims with waify blonde hair and a face too gaunt to see her eyes.

Tselias knew that woman. Not personally, but she had seen her around, wearing emerald robes and skinning the day's latest catch. She always thought that the woman had a lovely laugh.

The instructor looked at the students with a long, grim face. "If anyone there is family or dear to you, you may end early today," he announced, and two students leapt forward. "The rest," he continued, "continue practice. I must speak with the guards, but you know what to do. Keep going through the motions." Looking over the concerned group, he added, "Those victims need good watchmen and women to look after them. Practice for them."

As everyone re-assembled, Tselias felt a burning rise within her. She stayed where she was and watched the victims, the watchmen talking with her instructor. She spotted a goofy grin amongst the concerned looks, and blinked in shock, before refocusing...and then rolling her eyes.

Erikal grinned at her, telling her she looked sick in Grassland Sign. Rolling her eyes, she signed back How are you not?, gesturing to the victims, implying the sight of them made her look "sick". As he motioned her over, she looked at her instructor, busy tending to the victims, before sighing, and hustling over. Makra got up and followed her, padding alongside her in a gangly stride.

"You're going to get me in trouble," she said to him when she was close enough, before adding with an air of arrogance, "not that I need your help." Makra sat patiently between the humans, looking up at Erikal curiously.

Looking over at the victims again, she turned back to Erikal. "Anyone look familiar to you?" She asked quietly, her voice in deference to the severity of the situation.

[Ife]

“He’s grown so much.”

Ife turned to the peregrine falcon, watching his handsome and pointed face with a swell of motherly pride. ”Indeed he has.” She glanced to her father, unable to conceal her happiness and instead embracing it, grinning widely and glowing. ”It’s his first hunting lesson tomorrow.”

“Nervous?”

”No, he’ll be fine.”

Her answer was too sharp and immediate to be the truth. When Ife’s father snorted with thinly concealed laughter, the redhead shot him a withering glare. She was nervous – so what? Ife was never going to admit to as such, least of all to her father. Once again, her attention turned to the falcon and Ife could not help but feel another swell of pride, twinned this time with anxiety. Food (I really ought to think of a more apt name for him, Ife chastised herself) had flourished into a majestic adult, but Ife still found herself regarding him as the young, helpless fledging she had raised. He might be many things, but Food was certainly no longer helpless. His talons and his beak were as wickedly sharp as any other falcon’s.

The falcon was attached to a thin leather strap, named a jess, that in turned connected loosely to his left foot. The other end of the jess was deeply embedded into the earth and weighed down with several rocks and stones. Perhaps a little extreme, but the very thought of Food escaping or getting harmed was enough to throw Ife into a cold sweat. He was her pride and joy: the closest thing the Inarta had to a child of her own.

She raised a silver whistle to her lips and blew a single sharp note followed immediately by a second, slightly longer blow. Food’s head snapped up from under his wing to stare at Ife’s face hungrily. She tossed a dead mouse up into the air and as soon as it hit the grass, Food dropped upon it and began tearing the creature apart. Her hand searched for another titbit, but something else caught the attention of both Ife and her father.

She could practically see the story coming towards her: one Drykas would tell another, and then that individual would pass it on to their companions, and so on and so on… But when they finally reached Ife and Braken Windstride, the redheaded woman barely believed the words.

Victims of a Zith attack.

Father and daughter stared at each other, equally harrowed and disturbed by this tale but for slightly different reasons than the rest of their brethren. Though the story could never be confirmed, and she held no memory of it, it had been assumed that Ife’s biological family had been killed by the winged beasts. She had been five years old when it happened, and according to the hunting part of Drykas that had found Ife the following morning, she appeared to have an irrational fear of the sky, pointing up and screaming whenever a crow flew past. They had silently explained the slain corpses and destroyed campsite as a Zith attack, and nobody had thought of a better explanation since.

“Ife, do you—“

Braken Windstride’s cautious words were cut short by Ife’s sudden departure. The young woman turned and ran, full pelt, away from her father and towards the source of the rumour. Why was she even doing this? What did she think would happen -- that she would come face-to-face with the family she had thought been torn apart? Her reaction had been the exact same last time a rag-tag group of Zith survivors had been found. And of course, every one of them had been a stranger to her. Would she even recognise her biological family?

Ife carried on running, her feet pounding the earth and her breath turning ragged as she hurtled across the tent city, only coming to a stop when she crashed into someone else, a Drykas male standing with an auburn-haired female. ”Shyke!” She grunted, her hands frantically signing a combination of the words: sorry and clumsy. But her eyes flickered from her newfound companions to the faces of the survivors, gaunt, pained and quite clearly starved and damaged. Broken things. And none of them familiar to her in any way.

Allowing a brief sigh of disappointment to escape from her, Ife murmured – more to herself than to anyone else, ”How did they survive?”

[Amunet]

Life had dealt a few blows to this diminutive Drykas. She worked, took care of her animals and worked some more. That was how she dealt with it. There was a lot to do to prepare for winter. Preparing for winter alone was tough without thinking of being without a pavilion. The vision she had received gave her little hope. It gave her no fear either so that in itself was something she clung to. The hope in the lack of hope was perhaps desperate, but it was all she had to hold onto.

Haggling down to the last copper miza for winter supplies as she made every Miza and trade count. The cheese was in five pound wheels. She brought one of her donkeys to carry the load of her purchases. The donkeys were a very wise purchase this season. It will make the move to winter grounds quite smoother. Her being alone now meant she had to do everything herself. The crafty girl had made inroads to self-sufficiency before the blow out with her pavilion. Her face was stoic bordering on stern. This expression was maintained to hold back the hurt and pain the blow out had caused.

The commotion at the gate had her head turn as she was packing the cheese onto her donkey. She gasped at the appearance of these people who were skin and bones. She grabbed the lead and made her way towards the front. The warriors who were practicing had stopped to gawk despite the instructor’s efforts to get them back to their drills. Amunet paid them little heed. The Watch recognized that she was of the Riverflower as she inquired at how the group was found. They said that they came out of the grass stumbling along. Three of them helped two of the worse off, not that the three were in better shape.

Amunet swallowed hard as she went up to one of them all of whom had vacant eyes. Her warm hand went to a forehead. The one she touched was cold and clammy. All of them were suffering from severe malnurishment, dehydration and shock. There were various sores amongst the dirt and gunk that was peeking behind ragged clothes that could be barely called clothing. The little red head spoke to a messenger boy and had him take a message to the Riverflower.

The little red headed woman went to each one to give a precursory once over. She had no fear as she put a hand on their forehead. The warmth of her hand seemed to make them look at her. The lack of comprehension other than the pleasure of the warmth tore at her heart. “We will help you get better. “ She waved a hand in front of their eyes. They had little reaction. A loud noise happened in the market, which had them cowering. It took several minutes to get them calmed down.

She turned to the ones who were barely holding on. They were the most shocky. They had no reserves in the body, nothing left it seemed. Amunet attempted to ask talk to them.

“Hello, I’m Amunet with the Riverflower, do you have a name?” she asked gently and softly. Her hand was on the forehead and side of the face as she was trying to get some cognitive reaction. The feel of bone on her hand instead of was unsettling. There was a blink. The brow furrowed ever so slowly as a look of confusion came on his face. The sound that came from his throat of a voice that moaned as he opened his mouth to discover his tongue had been cut out.

Amunet had found a spare blanket in her hands as she looked up and gave a polite smile. She made soothing sounds as a blanket was wrapped around the man’s shoulders. She turned to one of the woman captives that one of the trainee warriors was fussing over. The young medicine woman attempted to ask the same thing. “Her name is Lira. Why won’t she talk? She doesn’t recognize me.”

As she was wrapping the skin and bones female around with the blanket, she said very gently as not to cause any more discomfort then necessary. “She is suffering from shock and trauma. Give it time and stay close. We will do what we can.” The girl nodded and took her words to heart. Her little hand was on her shoulder giving it a reassuring squeeze.

Amunet went to the next victim. Another male that might have been more muscular if time hadnt rendered the muscle down to nothing due to starvation. She wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. The young lady tried the same thing. "Do you have a name?" She asked gently. The head turned to look into her sky blue eyes. His eyes widened as if he realized he wasnt looking into black upon black eyes of a zith but a human being. He clutched onto her as if to cling to her suddenly. "Easy, easy. " As she tried to untangle herself from the man drowning from shock and trauma. He didnt let go.

"I am Tark. I .. I.. had a wife, i think. i" The man started sobbing on her shoulder. The little woman wrapped her arms around the dirt and grim of the bag of bones that clung to her for dear life. She crooned something soothing. The Watch came up to her suddenly to defend her in case he got more physical. Not that he was capable of swatting no more than a fly right now, but the desperate can do strange things.

"Your safe. We will help you." She warned the man of the watch with her eyes to be careful as he helped her gently unwrap the man from the hold he had of her. A blanket was soon wrapped around his shoulders.

She moved away as she motioned for someone from the Watch. The Watch normally criticized her for her compassion, but this time, the hardened warriors of the Watch were touched. They were also concerned. “We need to ask them questions. Can you get them to talk?” One of the Yakhtai asked her quietly.

Normally this would irritate the young woman, but she could see their concern. “I can start treating them here, but they are in shock. If we can get them to be to where they can be taken to the Riverflower, you may get them healthy enough to start talking. Right now, I don’t think they know where they are at. I am a midwife, not a Doctor, but I can tell you this. If we don’t get them help soon, they won’t make it.” The last bit was said very seriously and quietly as she had to tilt her head up quite a bit to look into his eyes to emphasize her point.

“How do we know they are not carrying some kind of disease?” The man had asked. It was a serious question.

Amunet gritted her teeth as the reality of the situation was before her. “We don’t. Send for a doctor of the Riverflower. We need to get them out of the open and start treating them and find out how bad they are, check for parasites, check for any indication of disease, check for pregnancy.” The last sent a shiver up her spine.

[Erikal]

-


Erikal's grin faded a bit, conceding Tselias that point. The sight of the starved and cruelly treated people did make him sick. When his friend arrived, he pushed his spear into her hands, bending at the knees to greet Makra with a jovial round of scratching and playful petting.

"You'll be fine! Besides, this is important and I've got an idea to excuse our absence in the drills," said the young Drykas with a wry grin, peering up at her with Makra's fluffy head partially obstructing his view.

Erikal didn't respond to Tselias's question right away. Tilting his head to the side to gaze at the group of survivors. He noticed a short fiery-haired woman there helping the poor wretches; placing her hand on emaciated faces and uttering soft words to soothe their minds. Erikal patted Makra on the head once and elevated himself with a shove off his thighs. He shook his brown mane in answer. "Nah. But it looks like someone knows one of them," he said, seeing one woman looking quite distressed over a despondent and unresponsive skinny blonde haired girl he had heard called "Lira".

Just as he was about to say something else, a woman crashed into him! He steadied the red-haired woman with a firm grip on her arms before releasing her. Her Grassland Signs were reciprocated with one that meant no problem. Erikal saw immediately the reason for the woman's lack of awareness: her attention was fixed on the Zith victims, almost as if she expected to find someone she knew among them. Though her query was barely audible and probably not pitched for the group, Erikal answered her. "I don't know. But we can find out. Come on!" Erikal motioned for the others to follow him as he accepted his spear back from Tselias.

Up close, the whole thing seemed more real somehow. Awful odors made his eyes tear up. From unwashed faces peered vacant eyes. The lack of any emotion at all is what troubled the Drykas most of all. The Zith robbed them of their humanity, he thought. His brows knitted together in anger to see such desolation of souls. One scrawny man sobbed and cradled something in his arms. When Erikal got closer, he saw the man clutched a bone that appeared to be the remains of a person.

Another man with a sunken chest whose bony shoulders were draped with a blanket surprised him when he unexpectedly reached out and grasped the young Drykas's upperarm. He spouted a lot of gibberish and pointed to the sky repeatedly. It was only when his mouth widened in horror that Erikal saw he had no tongue to speak with. Despite wanting to help the victims, Erikal instinctively pulled out of the man's grasp. His gaze lifted to where the man had indicated. But nothing out of ordinary was to be seen there; only a gray sky where dark clouds amassed. Still, it wasn't exactly an uplifting sight either. The whole ordeal gave the horseman a sick feeling in his stomach. Tselias was right.

The queasy feeling didn't stop Erikal from proceeding with his plan to get the group answers. Spotting the Yakhtai he had seen earlier interrogating the ragtag bunch, Erikal approached him, chin high, shoulders squared. He gave a salute of respect to the watchman. "We were told to report and offer whatever assitance we could," said Erikal. It wasn't true, of course. But who would question the origin of such a command when it had to do with helping victims?

The watchman certainly wasn't about to it appeared. He seemed to only glance at the group of helpers momentarily. "Yes. Good. Help that woman over there tend to their needs," he said. The Yakhtai turned away, but then abruptly swiveled his gaze back toward them. Erikal thought for a moment, the man had caught onto his little trick, but instead said: "And if you can get any important information to pass on to the watch as to the whereabouts of the Zith lair, do so."

"Yes sir!" It was a lucky thing the Yakhtai departed then, as Erikal was unsure if he could hide his sigh of relief. He looked over at his comrades and offered a sign along with a wink, piece of venison. "Well...let's see what we can learn about these people and help out where we can," he said, coming to stand by the short woman who busied herself with easing the slaves' pains. "Anything we can do to be useful?" he inquired.

A chime later he heard the relieved voice of someone say, "Thank Rak'keli! The doctor is here!"

[Tselias Starcrest]

It took much of Tselias' willpower not to roll her eyes as her comforted her. Whenever he says It'll be fine, she can already hear her father chastising her. Though, she saw his face change as he examined the victims. She knew he was serious about helping, this time.

Tselias listened to him talk about the victims, when she heard a hustle, and Makra whine after his tail was stepped on. She turned a sharp maternal eye to the source, and found a petite red headed woman barreling to the victims. Tselias reached out a hand to stable her, signing back worry not, roughly.

"How did they survive?"

The question came quiet and defeated, as though the weight tripled on her tiny shoulders. Makra sniffed the woman's hand, and nuzzled his head into it, looking at her face thoughtfully. Erikal became animated and beckoned them forward, though her mind was still with the woman. It's not in Tselias to be good with comfort, but she didn't feel right leaving the woman unanswered. Awkwardly placing a hand on her shoulder, Tselias offered , "They had something to live for," in a level, matter-of-fact tone. The woman had the look of trauma in her eyes as she stared at the victims. While she didn't like what she said, she wasn't sure silence was an improvement.

"We were told to report and offer whatever assistance we could."

Seriously? Tselias shrugged, before standing behind Erikal quietly. She was sure she'd hear about this later. The Yakhtai almost seemed to ignore him, until he finally said, "Yes. Good. Help that woman over there tend to their needs."

Tselias noticed another short red headed woman in the direction he gestured. A man was clutching her leg, scared to let go. The woman was clearly trying to attend to them all, but it seemed a herculean task as they all laid huddled and weak against the ground. While Tselias wasn't exactly a doctor, she hoped she could offer some small help.

"And - "

Tselias froze, and turned her head. Her mane of auburn hair fell in front of her face. She grabbed Makra's scruff to keep him from running off.

"-if you can get any important information to pass on to the watch as to the whereabouts of the Zith lair, do so."

She breathed a sigh of relief, and moved on with the group. She noticed a victim trying to sit up and stand, but failing miserably. Tselias frowned, and strode forward, placing her hand on the woman's shoulder.

"Ma'm - can you hear me? What's your name?" She asked in an even, calm tone. The woman turned to face her, but appeared to just look through her with empty ice blue eyes.

"A-are they coming?" she stuttered through a dehydrated voice. It hung with a withered Drykas accent, quieted as though her voice was beaten from her. "Don't let them come. I didn't do a thing. I just wanted some food. I just, just wanted some food." The woman clung to Tselias' barrel chest, shaking.

Tselias put an arm on her to help support the woman, unsure what would calm the woman. "Nobody is coming for you. You're safe, ma'm. You're home."

"Avoid the shadows," The woman grabbed her desperately again. "Don't drink at the ponds, they'll make you pay - they will make you pay!" Makra looked as though he was approaching, kindly as he was wont to do to those who were suffering, but Tselias waved him off. This woman was in no straights to see a dog licking her feet.

With a heave, Tselias prepared to lift the woman to bring her to a tent, and was sickened at how light she felt. This woman couldn't have weight any more than Makra after a summer shave. She cleared her throat, feeling bile in her throat, and pressed forward with new levels of fright and determination in her feet.

"Is there a doctor?" She called, no longer caring who saw or heard what. The woman muttered against her chest, "don't drink from the pond, don't drink from the pond..."

Almost on queue, a doctor rushed in as everyone sighed in relief. The doctor was immediately swarmed with three of the patients, giving Tselias little opportunity to get her patient help.

She held the woman tighter, and rushed to Erikal. He was standing next to a woman who was tending to another patient, but contesting with one patient was easier than three.

"Where do I put her?" She asked the shorter redhead bluntly, adjusting her grip of the woman. The woman clinged to her by her shirt, her arms shaking. "She's severely malnourished, and out of her mind. She's been repeating "don't drink from the pond" almost ever since I found her." Tselias shot a look at Erikal - it was unsure, worried, and most definitely uncomfortable. She hoped he knew what he was doing, roping them into this.

[Ife]

They had something to live for.

The wise words from the other Drykas woman swam around Ife’s head and engulfed her. Yes, this woman must be correct, but Ife still found their survival nothing short of miraculous. She gave the woman a short, appreciative nod and smile before blindly shadowing the male she had ran into, following him out of nothing more than hopeless good faith. She chewed her bottom lip as she sifted slowly through the crowd of other Drykas that had also gathered to welcome the Zith survivors. But when the redhead came closer to those gaunt, haunted faces, Ife’s entire body jolted and she realised with a wince that her lip was now bleeding badly.

Still, her minute injury seemed almost comically simple compared to the horrors that the Zith survivors had clearly been through. Her eyes scanned their faces and bodies; from hollow and half-starved to bruised and beaten. She had never imagined such damage being inflicted onto a living creature before. Even whilst hunting, she knew her people were as merciful as they could be. But the Zith seemed to be a different matter. They clearly took pleasure in inflicting pain and unbelievable suffering onto their victims.

This left a sickening thought in Ife’s mind, like a bad taste stained onto her tongue: is this what my family went through whilst I escaped through the grass?

Likewise, she could not help but wonder if this was this what she had looked like when Braken Windstride first discovered that lost little redheaded girl all those years ago? She supposed not: he had said that her status and condition had been surprisingly good when she stumbled into their view, but what if he had been lying? A shiver ran down Ife’s spine – followed immediately by guilt. She, more than anyone else, should be throwing herself into helping these poor people. And yet here she was, merely comparing her own fortunate to their lack of it.

With that sharp, self-hating through, Ife shook herself minutely and snapped out the initial shock.

“What can we do?” She said, echoing the question from the male she had been following since their earlier collision. He, and the other woman, were both utter strangers to Ife and yet here she was, tagging along with them to be of some use, some help.

The challenge of helping these victims swelled up before Ife as she stood dumbly to the side. She held no knowledge of medicine, or even what herbs that might heal or numb the emotional pain the survivors might be going through. Beyond offering them a conciliatory smile or word, she could do nothing.

And yet one of them was inexplicably drawn to her. A dishevelled young woman with dirty blonde hair and a face full of scars and bruises swayed towards Ife. She said not a single word, not even when she stood less than a foot away from the Inarta. Ife drank in the details of this woman, only to realise that the apt word was actually girl. This survivor was no more than sixteen, perhaps seventeen at the most. She was shivering, but nevertheless gave Ife an exhausted, almost drunk, smile. “Are you hurt?” Ife said, then silently chastised herself for asking such a ridiculous question. Of course you’re hurt.

“Let me help you.” She proffered, stepping forwards and extending a hand towards the tatty-haired youth. The silent girl nodded, smiled again, and placed her muddy hand into Ife’s. “Do you speak Pavi?” Yet again, the girl nodded but said nothing. Another chime of silence stretched out before Ife said, in a mild flurry of panic and anxiety, “my name is Ife. I’ll help you. There’s a doctor, somewhere.”

Unbeknownst to Ife, the young girl she now held onto gave another nod and touched her slightly swollen belly.

[Amunet]

The girl busied herself as she did the basics. She took a pulse count which ranged from rapid and labored to stuttering to barely palpable. The girl had a charcoal stick and her journal to make notations and observations of these individuals. It was very difficult to place her heart out of this. It was quite impossible as she wrote down these details as the runner she sent for a doctor at the River Flower would not waste time. The scene was safe as the Watch was all around but five severely emaciated and dehydrated patients in very poor condition was not something one midwife much less a young medical person should handle alone. Amunet might be free spirited and stubborn but this was life and death. The game face was on and she rolled up her sleeves.

Patient assessment was very important as this provided a quick overview for the Doctor to act quickly with treatments. If the Doctor didn’t have to do this part, it would make these poor souls lives that much more on the way to healing. She stopped at the one that was called Lira. Amunet reassessed her mental status. “ Hey there, what is your name? Do you know what time it is?” The girl waited a minute watching the woman’s eyes. “Do you know where you are?” The girl looked up at her helplessly and looked at her friend helplessly and then burst into uncontrollable sobs.

Amunet palpates her neck and head gently as she asked her friend to keep trying to sooth her. She took a pulse count and listened to her breath sounds with her ear at her back. Amunet looked at her sores and pressed in, some revealed small pearls of puss oozing out. Her hand palpated the abdomen briefly and deftly as her small hand had the advantage of being able to get in while she was curled in her friend’s arms. Every bone was protruding with no muscle tone at all. By the end of the exam the girl seemed to cling more to her friend and less empty eyed. Unfortunately it was replaced with anguish. Amunet started writing down her assessments.

Mechanism of Injury: prolonged nutrition and hydration denial, psychological and physiological abuse and trauma.

Scale of 1 to 10 patients are scoring a 1 or 2.
General impression: Emaciated severely with positive bone showing on spine, ribs and hip bones showing. Severe Dehydration. Moderate to severe shock.
Mental status: responsive to pain stimuli. Not alert and unresponsive to name.
Airway: airway clear
Breathing: breath sounds and the rise and fall of the chest are shallow
Pulse: rapid to stuttering
Skin: Pale and mottled. Cold and clammy
Head and face: Positive for parasite infestation In hair. One male has tongue eviscerated from its connection point.
Upper extremities: bruises and sores on some. Evidence of parasites in hair. Scalely and debris throughout scalp with evidence of dried blood.
Chest: positive rib count. Ribcage seems to be sound albeit no muscle tone or fat layer
Abdomen: sunken in. Palpation of abdomen reveal organs feeling hard. one of the females have a positive bulge
Back: sores and marks indicating trauma from repeated strikes.Lower extremities: no muscle tone and sores throughout. Redness around the sores indicate presence of infection some have puss.

History: Patients arrived from the Sea of Grass from what is suspected, a Zith enslavement. two female patients three male patients. Two of the male patients are in the worst shape. Male with the cut out tongue is the most critical. All patients are shocky, hypothermic, infested with parasites, infected sores, dehydrated and malnourished. The second female has a positive bulge where pregnancy is suspected. Exam will be necessary to confirm.

She sighed a relief as she saw Nehrar came into view. He surveyed the scene with a practiced expert eye. Amunet went up to him to provide as succinct as a briefing as possible.

“They don’t know their names, most of them do not know where they are at. Cognitive abilities are minimal. Respirations are shallow for all of them with two being the worse. Heart counts are irregular. There are sores, parasites. ” The girl pointed towards the two that were on the ground not able to sit up. "One might be pregnant." Amunet swallowed hard on that

Nehrar nodded as he read over her assessment. “Lets get them into a shelter and get meat broth, milk and a bit of bread. You cant feed a person that hasn’t eaten in weeks regular food. It will make them sicker than they are now. “

Three people had approached her to offer their help. Amunet smiled at the man and the two ladies who stepped forward. “We need to get these poor people into the shelter and start treatment. I think someone is getting the meat broth done, we need more blankets, clean clothes and a lot of hot water. First lets… “

It was at that moment the man that had no tongue went into a convulsive fit. Amunet stopped everything she was doing and went to where he was laying on the ground. She tried to lift his head up but it seemed he couldn’t breath. His eyes bulged a little in the effort to try and breath a decent breath of air. “No.. Come on breath. “ With no thought of what contamination may lay within she tried to give him a breath from her own mouth. Her hand went to his throat as the heart beat was not felt.

Nehrar was at her side in but moments putting his hands on the chest to press in five times. Amunet breathed into his mouth a good breath. The Doctor tried again to get his chest going with compressions. Amunet kept pace with the doctor to give the breaths. Nehrar stopped and looked at the man and felt for a heart rhythm. “He is gone. May he rejoin the web.” The man said sadly as his head bowed.

“No .. No he cant. “ The girl tried pressing in the chest like Nehrar did and then do the breaths by herself. The experienced Doctor took a deep breath and exhaled as he watched the determined girl try and edge life out of the corpse. The medical man understood why she did what she did. He got up and placed his gentle hand on the girl’s shoulder as he pulled her away from the body with equal gentleness. “Amunet. “ He turned her to face him. “Let him go. He is dead.” The compassion in the man’s eyes was clear as the young woman did not handle the death very well. Amunet started tearing up as she wiped her mouth and the tears fell down that pretty face. Nehrar pulled a bottle from a pouch and handed it to her.

“Take this and go rinse your mouth out well. Get you a drink of water and a breath. The rest need you.” He said in a way to encourage her, to get her to move forward. Ever since her mother died in childbirth, this part of the job had always been the hardest on her. He couldn’t fault her drive and compassion though.

The girl nodded and took the bottle to do just that. Amunet slowly went to the side to do as she was told by the head Doctor of the River Flower. Nehrar then directed the young warrior man and woman and the other redhead that wanted to help. “Lets get the remaining patients in the tent. “

[Erikal]

The depressing scene muted even Erikal's usually sunny disposition. Constant coughing, sneezing, moaning, groaning, muttering, sobbing, scratching and (worst of all) the constant unrelenting stares. Devoid of human spirit. Those eyes troubled the young Drykas and battered against his soul. He could only imagine the horrible pain and suffering it would take to snuff the inner-light of a person. Some of them were so far gone in their own personal nightmares, that even now, freed of such tortures, their minds were still held prisoner.

Erikal was beginning to have some doubts about his genius plan. What did he really know about helping people such as these? If only it was a matter of the spear or bow. Those were things he had experience in. Where he could actually make a difference. There was a wave of helplessness that challenged his iron-like determination to see it through, no matter what.

Much to the warrior-hunter's relief, the short red-headed woman answered their plea for direction. "Move them to the tent. Bring blankets, fresh clothing, and hot water. Got it!" he repeated more loudly for the benefit of others. It took an effort to remain upbeat with the dreary scene around him. Erikal had to focus on the jobs that needed doing. If he allowed himself to stop for a moment to actually feel the vast anguish that hung around the place like a miasma, his clarity of purpose would be shattered.

Despite having clear objectives fixed in his mind, the dirt-smudged and tormented faces he saw when he turned threatened to swallow him up like a turbulent river. Tselias carried a shaking woman that clung to her shirts like a babe. The fiery-haired girl that had collided into him had also claimed a victim to shepherd to the makeshift pavilion tent. A blonde-haired female on the cusp of womanhood, but still very much a child. The scars upon her face could not hide such innocent beauty. Her noticeably bulging abdomen sickened the Drykas to realize the implications surrounding it.

There was a sudden gasp and Erikal turned yet again to see the frail-looking old man who had grabbed him earlier, collapse. The tongueless victim had his mouth agape in a silent scream whilst he spasmed on the ground. Both, the short redhead and who he thought must be the doctor by his garb and bearing, rushed over to the fallen man. Rituals to regain Zulrav's breath were performed in earnest. All for naught however. In such a sorry state as he was, the victim quickly grew lax, his eyes open but sightless nonetheless. Still staring up at the darkened sky in horror.

Erikal could do nothing but stand there dumbly for a time. Watching as the redhead stubbornly continued offering her breath despite it being apparent the man no longer required such things. Such determination was not lost on Erikal though. He longed to console the woman for the grief that haunted her inability to save the old man. But he knew in his heart it would be a wiser and more responsible course for him to help the others before someone else fell to their death. He offered a sign of farewell and moved away.

His jaw muscles tightened. He forced down the wave of nausea and nodded to his friends, offering a grim smile along with words of encouragement. "That's it. Good work." He patted the blonde pregnant woman lightly on the shoulder as she shuffled past with Ife. "You're safe. The monsters can't hurt you anymore," he said, thinking just how insufficient words could be. These people didn't need his optimism or assurances. They needed beds, water, and food. To that end, Erikal ran over to the remaining survivors. Two men. He offered the weaker of the two his arm for support, lurching awkwardly forward as they fell in behind the others on their way to the tent.

Erikal was surprised to hear a gruff voice whisper into his ear. Not in the native tongue of his people, but in common speech. "What do you know of monsters? Fool Drykas. No one is safe from those winged demons. They'll hunt us down like cattle. Yiven tried to tell you as much before he died. When Leth graces the world fully, they'll come. They'll come! Ahaha." Erikal hesitated in his walk to peer over his shoulder to find a face so caked with grime that he could scarcely make out his features. The man's beard held bits of things he did not wish to identify. Black stumps for teeth and rancid breath greeted Erikal with the victim's maniacal laughter.

The nomad shook his head as if to ward off bad omens. "You have.... suffered long. Mind needs ....time to heal. To rest. You will be safe," he said haltingly in the common tongue. with that Erikal pressed on toward the open pavilion flap with haste. The man's cackles continued to hound him. He wondered if he was wrong not to question the survivor then and there. The watchman had said to glean the whereabouts of the Zith lair if possible. He cursed under his breath. He would make it a point to ask questions after the rest were settled and taken care of.

[Tselias Starcrest]

Tselias watched Erikal parrot the advice and move about the room with feigned conviction. She frowned as he passed by her, his nerves crawling on his skin like beads of sweat, and spreading in the room. She readjusted the woman in her arms - hollows laid under her eyes. The brevity of the situation weighed in her face and muscles. She stared in silence at the wall for a moment, lost in indecision.

I should not be here, Tselias thought to herself. I am letting these people down. The words of her instructor weighed heavily in her mind. She wasn't a doctor. She wasn't even good at comforting others. What delusion made her think this was a good idea?

The sound of Amunet resuscitating the dying man snapped her from her mind. She looked around, distress filling her face again. Makra sat patiently at her side, licking the ankles of the woman in her arms. Tselias raised her head, and carried the woman to the pavilion of victims. Another person brought water to her. Tselias took it gratefully, and held it to the lips of the woman.

"Where...is my daughter?" The woman suddenly stammered, her eyes rolling aimlessly. Tselias drew back, shocked. She hadn't expected the woman to remember her name, let alone become cognizant of the situation around her.

"I don't know, ma'am - what is your daughter's name?" She asked carefully. Her arms were tense and ready in case this led to another outburst. The woman looked at her with glassy eyes.

"We went to the pond to fetch some water," She whispered, clinging against Tselias' arms. "We just wanted to fetch some water."

The training watchwoman furrowed her brow, and rotated the woman so she could see the other victims. "Are any of these women your daughter? Is she here?" She pressed again. The woman looked at her with her mouth agape, and fell into a fit of sobs.


As Tselias held the wailing woman, she felt anger bubbling up in her chest. It strained and tightened within her, like water in glass on a frozen evening. She felt near the point of bursting, and quickly (perhaps roughly) handed the woman to another attendant, stomping out of the tent.

Her mind was racing ten steps ahead of her feet. Her spiraling train of thought was interrupted when a loud cackle erupted, and she turned to see Erikal walking away from one of the victims not yet in the tent. He had ghosts in his eyes, and skin pale as Makra's fur.

As Erikal moved to walk by, she gruffly grabbed him by the arm, and shot punishing eyes at him.

"Are you having fun?" She chastised him bitterly. "Are you playing hero?" Tselias wasn't sure why the anger that bubbled up in her was now being aimed at Erikal. Part of her wanted to blame him for all of this, simply because he had the idea to get involved. Thoughts dashed across her mind, and took snips away from her. She bit her tongue, and let out a long sigh.

I am sorry Tselias conceded through signing after some anger exited through her breath. "The woman I was holding, she keeps mentioning 'Don't drink from the pond'. From what I pieced together, she and her daughter were fetching drinking water from a nearby pond, and they were probably attacked there." Tselias shifted her eyes around, before saying quieter, "She didn't identify any of the other women as her daughter." Stiff, curly hairs rose on the back of her neck before she could even finish the sentence. As she said that, a wave of nausea and horror hit her face. She looked at Erikal, then at the other red headed women roaming around. Makra roamed from her side to comfort a victim, who hugged the dog as they wept.

"What are we doing, Erikal?"

((I'm really really sorry for the late post all, life stuff happened. Will try to be better in future!))