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His wounds ached. The pervasive taste of rotting flesh filled his mouth, every exploratory prod of his tongue dislodging a necrotic scrap of skin or muscle from between his teeth, spitting filth every few stumbling steps. He rasped a curse as he fumbled around a corner, blood-stained claws leaving crimson trails upon the neon-streaked concrete. One more pigment to the urban mural- though he was unsure if the grey creeping in at the edges could be attributed to colour blindness, or blood loss.
The situation was dire. After battle, there would be the Waykeeper's talents, in a cool hole away from shell fire and the crushing treads of the Union men. The stench of blood nearly- but not quite- forgotten beneath the robes' watchful eyes. Here, there were no such comforts. He trudged through the back alleys of this seemingly endless city, a fresh stench creeping into his nostrils with every step, desperately searching for any sign of salvation. So far, the closest he'd come were discarded syringes, dirty glass and rusty needles promising tetanus, at best.
He clasped at his ribs, wincing as he felt his bruises and cuts beneath his ragged uniform. A few more steps- the sound of wheels blazing through shallow water, the verbal bric-a-brac of everyday life. Yes. He could manage a few more steps. He pulled himself around a corner, furrowing his furred brow as he squinted through the rain.
The downpour was acidic- the bitter tears of a smog-strangled sky, trying to wash away the sins of the city. But it was ever-pervasive, bright glyphs in dozens of languages advertising goods and services he had neither the time nor inclination to try and understand. His jaws trembled as he scented grilled meat, rain sizzling against distant coals, and his legs brought him closer to the source without conferring with the rest of him, nearly sending him sprawling into the street. He pressed his claws into his palm, striving to focus himself- and there, across the street, hanging inside a dingy alley, a crimson beacon of salvation shone.
The medic's cross.
His people did not have a surfeit of civilian vehicles- which left him unprepared for the shrieking of horns that rattled his skull like a howitzer firing next to his ears. Tainted rain splattered against his legs as cars swerved around him, shouted obscenities reaching his ringing ears as he pushed on, suppressing a growl as a spike of anger briefly dulled the pain. Injured as he was, he could take these hairless men to the butcher's without a second thought- he shook his head, banishing the violent urge as his paws touched the sidewalk, carrying him out from the disastrous series of near-misses that was his pedestrian efforts.
King's bones, it hurt. Without the adrenal rush of combat, he had spent the past half hour taking a full account of his injuries- cracked ribs, lacerations, a savaged arm and leg. Nothing good, to say the least. But even in this flatface den, filled to the brim with rampant cynicism and degeneracy- there was a healer. He could smell the antiseptic solutions, a foul reek of formaldehyde trying, yet not quite succeeding, in drowning out the clarion call of blood beneath it all.
It was an easy smell to follow- he could chase it to the ends of the earth. He slumped against the wall, giving a quiet whine of pain as he felt the ragged cut across his back open up, adding a fresh smear of blood to the well-stained staircase. He was not the first to make this painful pilgrimage, attempting to balance himself as each step brought another jolt of pain. Another turn- fluorescent lighting flickered ahead, illuminating a mostly-clean surgical theater, cast in a crimson glow. Past a folding latticework of cheap steel, another flatface sat on a ratty leather stool, preoccupied with inspecting a series of gleaming surgical instruments strapped to his hand.
It was with the distant crash of thunder, lightning arcing down to illuminate the distant spires of other, wealthier men in this strange realm, that Rhodri pressed himself against the gate. In his least bloodied hand, he held a tightly-rolled band of bills, pushing it through the iron as he affixed the startled man in his gaze, panting heavily through the haze of pain.
"Medic. Have money."
He was dimly aware of the gate rattling open as its absence caused him to fall, the world fading to black as he crashed into the cool, unyielding concrete.
The situation was dire. After battle, there would be the Waykeeper's talents, in a cool hole away from shell fire and the crushing treads of the Union men. The stench of blood nearly- but not quite- forgotten beneath the robes' watchful eyes. Here, there were no such comforts. He trudged through the back alleys of this seemingly endless city, a fresh stench creeping into his nostrils with every step, desperately searching for any sign of salvation. So far, the closest he'd come were discarded syringes, dirty glass and rusty needles promising tetanus, at best.
He clasped at his ribs, wincing as he felt his bruises and cuts beneath his ragged uniform. A few more steps- the sound of wheels blazing through shallow water, the verbal bric-a-brac of everyday life. Yes. He could manage a few more steps. He pulled himself around a corner, furrowing his furred brow as he squinted through the rain.
The downpour was acidic- the bitter tears of a smog-strangled sky, trying to wash away the sins of the city. But it was ever-pervasive, bright glyphs in dozens of languages advertising goods and services he had neither the time nor inclination to try and understand. His jaws trembled as he scented grilled meat, rain sizzling against distant coals, and his legs brought him closer to the source without conferring with the rest of him, nearly sending him sprawling into the street. He pressed his claws into his palm, striving to focus himself- and there, across the street, hanging inside a dingy alley, a crimson beacon of salvation shone.
The medic's cross.
His people did not have a surfeit of civilian vehicles- which left him unprepared for the shrieking of horns that rattled his skull like a howitzer firing next to his ears. Tainted rain splattered against his legs as cars swerved around him, shouted obscenities reaching his ringing ears as he pushed on, suppressing a growl as a spike of anger briefly dulled the pain. Injured as he was, he could take these hairless men to the butcher's without a second thought- he shook his head, banishing the violent urge as his paws touched the sidewalk, carrying him out from the disastrous series of near-misses that was his pedestrian efforts.
King's bones, it hurt. Without the adrenal rush of combat, he had spent the past half hour taking a full account of his injuries- cracked ribs, lacerations, a savaged arm and leg. Nothing good, to say the least. But even in this flatface den, filled to the brim with rampant cynicism and degeneracy- there was a healer. He could smell the antiseptic solutions, a foul reek of formaldehyde trying, yet not quite succeeding, in drowning out the clarion call of blood beneath it all.
It was an easy smell to follow- he could chase it to the ends of the earth. He slumped against the wall, giving a quiet whine of pain as he felt the ragged cut across his back open up, adding a fresh smear of blood to the well-stained staircase. He was not the first to make this painful pilgrimage, attempting to balance himself as each step brought another jolt of pain. Another turn- fluorescent lighting flickered ahead, illuminating a mostly-clean surgical theater, cast in a crimson glow. Past a folding latticework of cheap steel, another flatface sat on a ratty leather stool, preoccupied with inspecting a series of gleaming surgical instruments strapped to his hand.
It was with the distant crash of thunder, lightning arcing down to illuminate the distant spires of other, wealthier men in this strange realm, that Rhodri pressed himself against the gate. In his least bloodied hand, he held a tightly-rolled band of bills, pushing it through the iron as he affixed the startled man in his gaze, panting heavily through the haze of pain.
"Medic. Have money."
He was dimly aware of the gate rattling open as its absence caused him to fall, the world fading to black as he crashed into the cool, unyielding concrete.