25th Spring, 511 AV Whitevine Hold That was new. When Rhuryc opened his eyes he was not cold. Sore, and stiff, but the relief was palpable. Memories flooded his mind. The unyielding wilderness, the vast expanse of white. A sorcerer and his minions, days of torture and struggle. All of it seemed like a dream. A nightmare now past. And yet everything was so fresh in his mind. The dark, dank cell, the deaths he had caused, their faces forever embedded into his mind. Like all the others. There was no sight like the one of a man's countenance when he knew he was dead. No matter how terrible those monsters had been, Rhuryc would never be rid of their last moments. No matter. He was alive. With a shift he pushed himself from the cot he inhabited, torso training as he set up. Where was he? A ward. All about him were cots loaded with patients in varying conditions, unconscious and wounded men and women scattered about while various medically minded works fussed over their conditions. The scuffle of the sick was strange mix of peaceful rhythms and loud, obnoxious interruptions. Some coughed, some hacked while others rested in care. Despite the serene tones and gentle, warm environment, Rhuryc had never much liked wards. Unseen as of yet, he pushed away the blanket that covered his torso and expected his own wounds. There were bandages everywhere. His arm, his side, across his chest, his legs. If not for his small clothes he would be almost entirely covered in white. Hmph. Moving was a nuisance. He glanced about his immediate area and felt the tension lift from his shoulders as he spotted his gear. And clothes. It was not until he stood that the attendants took notice. They fussed at the man as he ignored them and went about reclaiming what was his, sliding into his breeches and fumbling with the tunic over his head. Stiff. His arms hovered over his head for a moment longer than what seemed proper. They had tended well to his wounds, but there would no doubt be lasting pain. Rhuryc knew that well. No matter. He continued his antics, next slipping into his favorite, leather coat, gloves, then clomping on his boots. His intent to leave was a thing of legend. Frustrated, eventually the medical attendant gave up, just as Rhuryc moved to reclaim his weapons. Sword, shield, knife. Good. Somehow he felt complete. He stood steady, firm for now, there remained only two things to do. Eat, for one. He was starved. The other was to find Cat. Atzi. Her name was Atzi. Right. He turned, slowly - the damn stiffness in his entire body did not help him much - and surveyed the ward. Where was she? |