Wren braces, tense, as the Rift expands — and finally dissipates. A moment longer, and she stows her sword.
"Terror. A small demon, but a bitter one. You did well."
Her grip tightens, prepared to hold him upright as he sags, but there’s no need. It’s not the boneless flop of a wounded man, instead,
"Come sit," There’s a log not far, half-buried in the midwinter slush. “Easy. That was a hard blow.”
One she has no idea how he's standing through. She wants to tell him that he owes her nothing, that the people of these hills will know the service he's done — but those are dying words, panicking words, and it doesn’t ever pay to start up with nonsense like that.
Wren doesn't believe in miracles. But if he’s lasted this long, they may get lucky yet.
"There’s an Inquisition camp, not far. They can send word to the town surgeon." A better shot than breaking directly for Redcliffe, all fifteen miles distant. A barber might be able to hold him over long enough to see a mage out. “But I need you to let me look."
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"Terror. A small demon, but a bitter one. You did well."
Her grip tightens, prepared to hold him upright as he sags, but there’s no need. It’s not the boneless flop of a wounded man, instead,
"Come sit," There’s a log not far, half-buried in the midwinter slush. “Easy. That was a hard blow.”
One she has no idea how he's standing through. She wants to tell him that he owes her nothing, that the people of these hills will know the service he's done — but those are dying words, panicking words, and it doesn’t ever pay to start up with nonsense like that.
Wren doesn't believe in miracles. But if he’s lasted this long, they may get lucky yet.
"There’s an Inquisition camp, not far. They can send word to the town surgeon." A better shot than breaking directly for Redcliffe, all fifteen miles distant. A barber might be able to hold him over long enough to see a mage out. “But I need you to let me look."