Arctic Wind Through Pine woke after hours of
drifting in the pain-filled haze between life and death, stubbornly
clinging to that space in between while his body healed enough to get up
and move once more.
That was not to say that moving was
pain-free even afterwards. His passive healing during that time of rest
had patched him up enough to be functional, but even when he roused,
limbs were still broken, such was the weight of a God's displeasure,
even in passing, when they decided to tumble part of the mountain down
upon you.
Awake, at least, he could better direct his skills into
healing where it was necessary, even as others were starting to wake
after their time of slumber. He made his way further from them and back
towards the place that had nearly become his own tomb, fur still matted
with blood and viscera, clothes and armour ragged and torn from the
impact. His leg was not in a good state, but he could feel it healing,
along with a broken shoulder bone, both of which jarred with each step.
He
could still sense restless dead in there, as he had before everything
had gone more decidedly wrong. There would be no retrieving them, this
he knew, and while the pull to put them to rest had eased a little by
the sheer impossibility of getting to them, it had not gone altogether.
The pain from his body was distracting, but he knew the feeling of that
pull only too well to know that even when his body recovered there
would be little stopping that pull.
What had once been a huge
entranceway now only stood in rubble, an unstable but solid part of the
mountain. The god, or whatever traps that had been set off, had
rendered it into a cairn for those that were fool enough to fail as the
group had certainly done at their attempt at thievery with skill. He
still didn't know what had gone wrong, only that it had, but the vast
cave-in stood before him, cutting him off from his task.
But
perhaps the cave-in was indeed like a giant cairn, and would act as
such. There would be no way to disturb those graves now, after all.
And
so he started, no matter his own pains, for they would resolve
themselves in time now that he had survived thus far. Words were
difficult with the agony that each breath still offered, worse still
were the gestures needed, but he managed. As the last of the ritual
completed, he waited, breath coming in short and quiet gasps from the
exertion.
It was done, and thankfully it was enough. The pull to settle the spirits to rest was gone.
With
steps that perhaps staggered a little more than they had before, he
made his way back to where the group had left him laying on his own
blanket. It would need to be washed to salvage it, certainly, much as
his own clothes and armour, if they could be.
Looking over to
the others, they seemed in a better state, having managed to exit ahead
of him, no doubt, and so he felt little guilt at gingerly lowering
himself back to that blanket and passing out for a little more time
before they would have to move onwards once more.
The feeling
of that cusp between life and death was stronger in him, having teetered
on it for so long; the push and pull of the forces working upon him,
and through him. He pondered that as he lay there, eyes closed to avoid
conversation, but awake enough to consider what he had learned.
Soon,
they would have to move once more, a task that he was not looking
forward to, but perhaps they would pass a river or lake where he could
wash the remnants of the group's folly from his patchy fur and mend his
clothing at least enough to be functional. Perhaps it would have been
better after all, to head back towards the town for more supplies, but
they had agreed to seek out the gnomes, and he had never been one to
shirk from a duty agreed upon. They would go, and along with them, so
would he.