The white sheep of the family
Loren legs pumped even as his mind went numb. Everywhere he saw the shards of ice—his ice—and the mud, mixing with blood in too, too many places. Seeing Oliver by the fallen Jigano, the summoner skidded to a halt, nearly falling over in the slippery mud in his haste. Laying a hand on the bard, the Launceleyn sent healing magic coursing through the white-haired man.
Then Loren was off again. He had to keep moving—
because so many of them were unmoving, gods
—knowing there were more in need of help. Hearing Rexanna's voice echoing over the Fields, he angled himself towards it.
And then he saw Remi and Aoife—gods no, please, anything but that—no, there were others helping Remi, the summoner needed to focus on the rest, those who still needed care, those without such loved ones. Abasi was fine, thank the gods, though even that the Launceleyn couldn't focus on right now.
Instead, he focused on the queen. "People might be trapped under the mud. You need to organize search parties." His voice was distant, tinny, barely audible through his ringing ears, through his swollen tongue. Although he knew he must look a nightmare, faced bloodstained, muddy, and bruised, his expression was eerily calm.
Raising his voice as best he could, though it was still oddly muffled, he called out. "Bring the worst of the wounded to me!"
If they dared, after what he'd done.
He banished that thought, and set out to making the area suitable for healing. Calling upon his magic once more (haven't you done enough?) he washed an area clean of the mud with water. Then he created five of the largest buckets he could and filled them with fresh water so that those without his powers (what little good they did) could at least start washing wounds. By then, people with injuries had begun arrived, and after checking they were severe enough to warrant his attention, he laid his hands on them almost without looking, a clinically detached expression on his face.
His head hurt, and he objectively knew he should heal himself. But there were others much worse off, and he didn't know how much magic he had left.
And it didn't hurt nearly as much as his soul.
Then Loren was off again. He had to keep moving—
because so many of them were unmoving, gods
—knowing there were more in need of help. Hearing Rexanna's voice echoing over the Fields, he angled himself towards it.
And then he saw Remi and Aoife—gods no, please, anything but that—no, there were others helping Remi, the summoner needed to focus on the rest, those who still needed care, those without such loved ones. Abasi was fine, thank the gods, though even that the Launceleyn couldn't focus on right now.
Instead, he focused on the queen. "People might be trapped under the mud. You need to organize search parties." His voice was distant, tinny, barely audible through his ringing ears, through his swollen tongue. Although he knew he must look a nightmare, faced bloodstained, muddy, and bruised, his expression was eerily calm.
Raising his voice as best he could, though it was still oddly muffled, he called out. "Bring the worst of the wounded to me!"
If they dared, after what he'd done.
He banished that thought, and set out to making the area suitable for healing. Calling upon his magic once more (haven't you done enough?) he washed an area clean of the mud with water. Then he created five of the largest buckets he could and filled them with fresh water so that those without his powers (what little good they did) could at least start washing wounds. By then, people with injuries had begun arrived, and after checking they were severe enough to warrant his attention, he laid his hands on them almost without looking, a clinically detached expression on his face.
His head hurt, and he objectively knew he should heal himself. But there were others much worse off, and he didn't know how much magic he had left.
And it didn't hurt nearly as much as his soul.
Will blood tell
