RP:Bloody Rain, Some Stay Dry And Others Feel The Pain, Part 3

Part of the Thy Kingdom Come Arc

Part 1 can be read here.

Part 2 can be read here.

Summary: The camp is left in disarray after the bombardment from Frostmaw. Healers attempt to help the wounded by taking them to the Dancing Destrier.

Rolling Hills

Gilwen , having managed to push the thought of the disfigured form out her head enough to think clearly, gestured to a pair of blood soaked elves and the trio began assisting with the evacuation plans of the medical tent. However, the body that had taken out Josleen called to the fiery headed elder, not vocally however, as the poor creature had been dead before it collided with the bard. Unable to shake the feeling of recognition, Gilwen moved toward the fallen, broken figure, and stooped to gingerly lift it's right arm, where she found a dark green tattoo that covered the inner forearm in an intricate pattern. Upon sight of the mark, her breath hitched in her throat, and tears immediately welled along her lower lashes and spilled over before a keening cry was loosed. Knelt there beside the body, she pulled the elven figure to her chest, cradling it as best she could while sobbing through a feverishly whispered prayer. Had it not been for the extra pair of elves she had pulled from the group intended for Hildegarde's use, Gilwen would have remained bent over the male's form, come hell or high water, but as it was, the elder was hauled from the deceased, and was given a firm shake to instill a fresh sense of realization for what was happening around them. Bodies of their kin still flew through the skies to litter the camp site, and there were wounded who still needed help and evacuation. "Bring him, please." She urged, glancing once more at the body before turning to distance and distract herself by aiding Rayala. Those elven sentinels scooped up the body as tenderly as possible and followed the group to the tavern.

Josleen ‘s tense body relaxes a little as Kelovath’s healing magic numbs some of the pain. She still can’t walk properly on her own, but the nerve damage along her spine will heal faster now thanks to him. The paladin carries her, his footing slipping here and there on the bloody and muddy ground but he doesn’t fall. Cobalt, his dire weasel, arrives just in time and the paladin mounts his trusty, uh, rodent, holding Josleen in place before him on the creature’s long, furry (blood-caked) body. The soft-pawed critter bounds away, his back bouncing in a series of sinewy S’s. Each jostle shoots daggers of pain up and down Josleen’s injured spine. She winces but doesn’t complain. She looks back only once to confirm that Rayala got most of the patients out, couldn’t bear to look a second time. The bodies strewn, both the artillery and the camp’s allies. The collapsed and torn tents. Over-turned cauldrons and boxes. Broken instruments and scattered swords. At The Destrier they’ll do a headcount of patients and camp staff. With the bulk of the battle having raced up the mountain the only thing left to fear is that headcount number, it’s size, how small, and what the difference between their total this morning and their total this afternoon represents. Who failed who, who could have done more, etc. The questions that come next.

The Dancing Destrier

Pilar watched Khitti join Hildegarde and her team to take the fight to Frostmaw, before crumpling back to the ground and resuming her crying for several minutes. By the time she settled down and looked up, the camp was deserted, except for herself and the bodies. So many bodies. Sniffling, she got up and limped away, into town. She must have looked a horrid sight, covered in blood, but considering the procession that had just gone by, she probably looked right as... rain, by comparison. Unsure of what else to do, or where to go, she followed the trail of blood to the Dancing Destrier and entered. She sat down by the door, her ankle now painfully swollen. She wouldn't be doing any more walking today.

Dergious arrives with a large crew of motley, but deadly looking, Orcs. They seem as thick as thieves, if you will, as they boisterously relive a recent battle. The dwarf, though literally dwarfed by the orcs, seems to hold a place of honor among them. He is as loud and aggressive as the rest, yet seems to drink a bit more than they.

Alex is silent as he sores through the air on the back of the rather large dragon known as Rayala along with the rest of her living cargo, the human silent despite the awful pain harassing his body with his broken ribs and bruised face. Glossed eyes say the man has been out of it for quite some time though they examine the numerous bodies and puddles of blood with a sense of complete loss. It doesn't take long for them to reach their destination and the descent makes his stomach turn and upon touchdown he can't hold it back anymore, the bard turns to face off the left side of the dragon and pukes spilling some of the bile on her regal looking scales.

Rayala couldn’t care less about being puked upon, but is mildly concerned for the man doing the puking. As is she more than concerned for the helper-woman whose pain and loss she can feel acutely, despite the defenses that the dragon has hastily thrown up. She calls upon the giants for help, and anyone able to stand. To them, she issues orders such as, “Get them down safely. I need to go back.” Occasionally, if the person in question is large enough, she’ll gather them up herself, carefully forming her mouth around them and plucking them from wherever they are to wherever they are safe. She does not do this with the man who has thrown up. He has been sick enough and doesn’t need a ride in the dragon’s mouth to further his pain. Her wings she turns into slides, she crouches to the ground. After everyone is unloaded, she intends to take off again, but stops before Gilwen. Passing the lady, and the body she has brought, Rayala bows her head, intending to tap her considerable snout in greeting against Gilwen’s chest — a gesture known to dragons of her ilk, and, she hopes, to humans — “we’ll bury them,” she murmurs, meaning the corpses that had been launched, meaning those lost in the fray. “We take care of our own,” she would add, if allowed, in her rumbling, guttural tones, nearly breaking into tears of her own. Her eyes, ever closed, flicker behind closed lids. On her way out of this new, makeshift camp, she scents the approaching Josleen, and turns back, slightly, realizing for once how utterly vulnerable they are. She regrets not suggesting they move to her caves, already set up for healing, safe and far beneath the earth. She shakes her head and turns her attention to the new arrivals. If there is need, later, for supplies and space, she’ll suggest it. And the injured would just have to life alongside the animals, there. “Are there any left behind?” the druid calls into the distance, too tired to figure out what distance there is between them, too tired to note that her face points too far to the left and may not be even pointed in their direction. Then, when orcs and a dwarf trot by, Ray notes them also by scent, her keen nose heightened alongside all her remaining sense. She wonders dubiously if they just happened to be around or if they’re a remaining threat. She stands, lopsided, slanting down at her back left, torn between checking for others back at the camp and remaining here for potential defense. Until she has learned more, she elects to stay. Josleen’s pain, amidst the pain of those all around her, stays unnoticed, until, perhaps it is mentioned, or otherwise brought to her attention. Pilar’s pain, too, has not been noted by the dragon. Rather than sending Ara back to the camp, she makes a hasty decision. “Go to my stores. Bring everything you can. Wanda will help."

Dergious goes silent as he recognizes the horrendous goings on. The Orcs go silent as well, though they bristle with the thought of battle and the carnage they love so much. The dwarf utters a few words in the orc language, and the beasts rush out into the maelstrom of blood. He whispers a few words, and as if from nowhere a small, frightened creature appears. The dryad is like a sad, wilted tree too healthy to live but not healthy enough to thrive. Her darkened eyes peer wearily at the dwarf, awaiting his command. The dwarf looms over here, and her fear is palpable. "Help da wounded, girl!" he orders, his voice like steel. The girl blinks at the unexpected command, but rushes to do as ordered. She produces a few seeds and places them upon the ground, and then pours blessed waters upon them. In moments, 3 apple trees spring forth. She begins picking the magically ripened apples, and dispensing them to the wounded. The dwarf stands by the door, his gnarled, calloused hands fondly brushing his many, many weapons as if he yearns to join his orc companions. He stays however, a silent and deadly guardian, hoping that something would be stupid enough to try to enter. The apples seem more than ordinary fruit, and the girl seems noticeably weaker after her work . As the wounded taste the fruit, they immediately seem better than they were, as if they were refreshed and more alert, and their wounds seem less serious though not healed completely.

Gilwen's drawn out of her reverie the moment Rayala's nose is all that is seen in her line of vision, and given the size of the elf in comparison to the large dragon, her snout taps against Gilwen's chest, but also her chin, and stomach as well. Understanding the nature of the gesture, the elder merely nodded before turning to acknowledge Pilar and her swollen ankle- however, the mention of burial drew the druids attention back to Rayala. "No!" The initial burst of refusal was louder than intended, and a soft, sheepish expression washed over her features. "No," she said, softer this time, "Thank you, but please, don't bury them." There were customs to follow to ensure a proper eternal rest. She turned then, to seek out Pilar, and once found, the elf stooped beside the vampire, her hand hovering just about the swollen ankle. "Let me take care of that, yeah?" Without waiting for an answer, the elf touched her index and middle finger to the inner side of Pilar's ankle, and immediately, heat blossomed beneath her touch to radiate outward and encompass the entire joint. Assuming Pilar responded to this magical healing, the torn ligaments would repair themselves in a matter of seconds, and the swelling that stiffened the ankle would subside soon thereafter.

Josleen asks Kelovath to leave her in a chair near the entrance. Coincidentally she’s opposite the door from Pilar. She smiles at the vampire weakly and says, “I’m glad you made it out, Pilar.” The barkeep has already sent around buckets of clean water with cloth so those in this make-shift triage may wash their hands and face and feel a little closer to whole again. Josleen, a native to Xalious, born and bred, begins asking for help from the locals: please, fetch supplies from other businesses, go to the camp and bring back our dead, go to the camp and salvage any supplies no matter how soiled or broken. Everything can be cleaned, repaired, repurposed. Gunnar’s frost giants go with the villagers to help carry heavier loads. The bard knows Hildegarde will need as much as she can salvage, and all good leaders have allies who don’t need to be told what to do, and so Josleen does without instruction from Frostmaw’s rightful Queen. From here the bard has a good view of Rayala and Gilwen outside as well. She overhears Rayala say to Gilwen that they will bury the dead elves. Her heart breaks as she watches the woman weep for her kin. She pushes off the chair to walk to Gilwen, but cannot. Each step hurts, and she yelps deep in her throat. Thankfully Gilwen comes to her when she comes to treat Pilar. Josleen says to the elfess, “I am so sorry for what has happened, especially to your people.” Again, but Josleen doesn’t feel the need to say ‘again’. Instead she says, “We’ll make them pay.” That’s when she notices Dergious and his dryad. “Well met again,” she calls to the duergar, the same who once gave her a beating heart. She never would have expected his aid, but accepts an apple all the same. “Thank you,” she says, lifting the apple to Dergious indicative like a toast before taking a bite. Kelovath busies himself among the cots using healing magic and boosting morale. He imparts high-minded words to reinvigorate the spirit, what paladins do best (and now this character is on cruise control, assume he does this from here on out). Josleen watches his uncanny unfamiliarity for a moment then looks away, back towards the village square to wait for the first of the dead to be brought back. Who have they lost?

Pilar watched the goings-on with tired, pained eyes. Alex had passed out shortly after puking, and a giant was taking him someplace to lie down. Then there was the sad little dryad girl handing out apples. She turned bleary eyes to Josleen when the half-elf addressed her. "Thank you. I'm glad you are alright, too..." She slowly turned her head towards Gilwen when the elf offered to heal her ankle. She inhaled sharply as the pain flared up, but as the feeling of warmth spread, the pain dulled. "Th-thank you..." she murmured. The little dryad girl wandered over, offering a fruit. Pilar shook her head. "No, thank you, little one." Her brows furrowed. "You seem... unwell. Please, sit for a moment and rest, poor--." And she cringed in pain. Kelovath's divine intervention was wreaking havoc on her unholy existence. As her ankle was feeling better, she struggled to her feet. "I-I need to... to leave." She didn't know the cause of her distress, only that it was something in this room. "M-Maybe I can help at the, the camp." Anything to get out.

Dergious scowles at Josleen's deference, but nods uncomfortably. He grunts, and the fearful dryad spins as if it was a warning. She hurries about, dispensing apples and water and whatever aid she can to the injured. She seems near tears as she casts fearful looks at the dwarf way too often for there to be any misunderstanding. Kindness is far removed from this girl's life, and perhaps something she might be completely unfamiliar with. The dwarf paces to and fro, mumbling irritably. He seems to be getting worked up, and the angrier he gets the more fearful the dryad gets.

Josleen isn't sure if she recognizes dryad's as full people with inalienable rights who cannot be enslaved. Confusing. They're like animals too her, for her experience with them is little. Who knows. While any obvious abuse makes Josleen uncomfortable, she's too wrapped up in the calamity of the day to feel impassioned. Is this akin to the abuse of a human or the abuse of an animal? Neither is cool, but in times like these only one begets immediate intervention. The other can wait. She is one person who can only do so much.

Rayala seems surprised by Gilwen’s initial outburst, but she doesn’t seem offended at all. She is far less surprised by how much of the lady the dragon’s snout takes up. She waits until the lady is done speaking and adds, “I meant only that they would be laid to rest.” Her face, beset with harsh features and scars, is nonetheless gentle, her voice gentler, “Common is not my first language, and other customs are not my own. What I meant was…you have my claws and wings and tail, should you need them to take care of your dead.” She assumes that the bodies -are- this woman’s dead. Hers was the only sign of recognition, the only cry of mourning that the dragon had gleaned. The dragon is broken away from everything in which she had been previously engaged (including the return of Ara, whom she can sense in the distance) by the pull of something inside the building, a dryad, a little thing, a sweet child. Having received no answer to the question posed to Josleen, she shifts back into a humanoid form, to find someone who has been at the camp more recently than she. She is not quite naked, no one could said to be naked when still plated as this lady is with scales, and still with wings on her back, but still she may -seem- a bit naked, now that she is so much more humanoid. She totters where she stands, sweaty and exhausted, at least until a small tree sprouts out of the ground beneath her to provide her with a limb to use — her carefully crafted wooden leg is back at the camp. “Thank you,” she murmurs to the plant helping her, as she reaches across her body to fix it to her limb with a circle of vines from around her wrist. She enters the building. A brief pause by the door, where Josleen is, and Pilar is leaving. The pull is stronger, now, so strong she cannot focus on her task, on anything she had previously wanted. “My lady,” she says, with a pained grimace, coming to rest before the child. “To whom is this child?” Her words are not angry, just…consumed. The need to help mingles with the fear of the day, and the fear from this child.

Gilwen would have merely waved away the explanation from Rayala, shaking her head in silent indecation that there was no need for the dragon to explain herself. "It is alright. Thank you," She offered before entering the Destrier to assist Pilar. After the healing she rose to stand in tandem with the vampire, before the latter hurried from the establishment, and following, Gilwen turned to Josleen with a smile as weak and helpless as the dryad that wandered about offering apples. "Thank you," she murmured, her attention wandering the tavern-turned-triage for signs of need, but it seemed between the paladin and the dryad's apples and waters, things and people were on the mend, so the druid turned to leave the building and oversee the retrieval of the dead. Already, five of the bodies used as ammunition had been laid out along the ground just outside the Destrier, blanketed with white sheets of cloth provided by the inn and other's homes, and there were more bodies being brought up from camp still. Each of them, regardless of race, were offered a personal blessing by the elf, and while she waited for someone other than the dead to need her, she remained near the body of the man with the green tattoo.

Dergious watches the dead pile up with growing ire. He mutters and growls, and finally slams a fist into a wall. He spins and points a thick finger at the dryad. "You!" he bellows, "Finish wit dis, an den get back in yer hole! Ah'm goin te find out whut's whut!" He spins and launches himself out the door.

Josleen sees the first of the bodies start to come in and be laid down in rows in the village square. She moves again as if to leave her chair and walk out to the dead, but she can’t. She winces, whimpers. It hurts too much. She should be lying prone on a cot herself, have her back seen to by a healer with some salve or spell, but she won’t cut the line of the needy. She’ll be seen to eventually. The dryad’s apple helps. With some envy she watches the able-bodied Dergious strut out. Without envy she watches Gilwen among her fallen kin. Feeling useless, Josleen goes back to overseeing the triage center. The tavern’s tables have been jutted against each other in pairs to form additional, albeit hard, cots. A giant sees Josleen is in pain and offers to carry her to one of the hard table-cots where she can lie down on her stomach. She choose the one nearest Kelovath. In trying times Josleen always gravitates to the largest and most armored person in the room or battlefield. Hildegarde, Eliason, Linn, Mikael, Krice (though not armored, plays similar role), now Kelovath is unwittingly enlisted in her roster of put-upon heroes. Here is Josleen; you must protect (issues of consent notwithstanding). She folds her arms and buries her face in the crook of her elbow where no one can see her finally cry. Josleen adds that she answers Rayala since Derg did not! "That duergar's!" She does this after looking away from Gilwen, before going to the table-cot.

Pilar waited outside, looking uselessly between the tavern and the direction of the camp. She honestly had no idea what to do, as everyone else seemed to have everything under control. But she couldn't go back inside. The pain... With a shudder, she wandered away from the tavern and back to the camp. People were still trucking bodies away when she arrived. The ground was soaked with blood, and her ruined shoes squelched through the mud. She eventually found her way to the tent where she'd been staying. The bodies were gone, but the cauldron remained. She rolled the metal pot out of the way and stared at the tent. Most of the stakes had been ripped from the ground. She pulled the canvas up and ducked underneath, inspecting the poles that once held it aloft. Some were snapped, most were bent, and the canvas was torn in places. The tent was unsalvageable. Crawling back out, she tugged the canvas away to reveal the crushed cots and destroyed trunks. She was glad she'd left her pets at home in Vailkrin. if they'd been here... She just looked around, at a loss for what to do.

Kelovath seemed to be mindlessly attending to an injured elderly fellow. Even though the scene around them was not the most pleasant, the old man was talking away like it wasn’t a horrible situation that many, many people were involved in. Days like today were the realest of struggles. For the paladin, it had been a shocking experience more than anything. Never in his 30 plus years had he seen such sights. Truly though, it strengthened him. Built up his resolve for things to come, no doubt. His attention on the old man began pulling away, as did his thoughts of the war-camp. There was so much going on around him, that surely there was more than this one, elderly-man that required his skills. The paladin stopped wrapping up the man’s arm and told him to relax for a bit. When he started to step away, his eyes caught sight of Josleen. In her weakest moment, secretly crying, which caused him to stop. His attention stayed on the bard, even as the old man –continued- to talk about…Something. Kelo wasn’t listening anymore. Finally, the armored man decided on something. Grabbing a nearby tavern chair, he went over to Josleen’s, probably uncomfortable, cot and placed the chair at her side. He sat, reached out with both hands, and with a soft smile, began rhythmically slipping bits of healing magic into her back. His head bowed, eyes closed, and the smile remained. His mind cleared and his breathing steadied. Until something urgent was required of the paladin of Arkhen, this is where he’d remain.

Rayala blinks as her question is answered from an unexpected source. Distracted from this by the clearing of her mind — the pull of the child has ceased with her leaving, if not forgotten — the gilded lady listens to the sounds of the duergar storming off with a frown. She makes her way slowly through the injured and sick, noticing Ara’s return for the first time. The hound stands just by the door with a unicorn — the aforementioned Wanda, no doubt — both with bags slung over their back. Bandages and herbal remedies, potions and poultices, pre-crafted. A healer’s dream, perhaps — this is exactly why Rayala keeps her stores up. She tends to whomever she is able, gravitating towards those whom she feels the most pain radiating therefrom. She means to slip a potion to Josleen…ginger root, rosemary, hops, she thinks, for inflammation, for pain, and for prevention of nerve damage. When she steers closer, however, she feels the thrum in her body indicating holy magic is being used, and slips the potion to another, instead, explaining, “Ginger root, for the inflammation,” the dragon murmurs, “and any possible degeneration of the deep flesh. Rosemary for additional pain relief. Hops, the same. Until I can come by again?” She doesn’t feel the need to say more. It’s fast-acting. She, right now, is fast-acting. Bandaging. Soothing. She continues her rounds, outside next, then comes to rest where Gilwen sits. “There are no plants for grief,” the dragon utters. “But I offer friendship instead,” Rayala adds, and over comes Wanda, bright white and almost gleaming such, against the backdrop of blood-spattered casualties. Ara takes up the other side. “And my friends offer the same.” A hand to a shoulder, an offer of comfort is extended. Rayala struggles to her feet, again, perhaps to go in and sit for a spell, alone. She is, after all, quite unused to company. And there is the matter of the dryad to mull over. And her aching stump to massage. She keeps a keen ear for those in dire need, and, finally, rests.

Pilar eventually laid down on the least wrecked cot and tried to get some sleep. There would be much and more to do tomorrow.