Kristen sat in the infirmary of the Academy. Her arms she had held together, helplessly staring at their symmetry. Symmetry, that was, until it came to the wrist of her right arm, where the hand above was no more. Bandages concealed the stump. Yet underneath, she knew, there lay a most horrid mess of flesh, muscle, and bone.
The Canal Campaign under Lord Walter Banick had not gone well—at least not for the Initiates involved. The massive hit to her marks for their failure was the least of it.
Gods...Raf. Raf. It had been her. She had asked him to help her step in-between Kalix and Alistair. And in so doing, he...he...
Kristen sat in the infirmary of the Academy. Still. Staring with a hollow gaze through the space where her right hand used to be, her face ashen.
The healer should be coming soon.
In the correspondence she received from Mother and Father, they were as aghast as could be communicated via the written word. They assured her that money was no object, that they would secure for her only the best they could possibly find.
Kristen sat in the infirmary of the Academy, and at last the healer arrived. A man, middle-aged, with groomed brown hair and beard. A friendly, capable look to him. And, as well, something about him struck Kristen as familiar.
The healer placed his bag down beside the bed in which Kristen was sat. He offered her a warm smile. Placed his hands on his hips in consideration. "Lady Kristen Pirian. Here you are, all grown up now. It's...astonishing how time passes." In his voice a slight—and fading—accent.
Kristen was brought out her despondence and her worries by confusion. "I'm...I'm sorry, do I...know you?"
He placed a hand to his chest and offered a small bow. "Owen Mason. I was there in the Battle of the Blades. I caught a few glimpses of you after we rescued you, but, well, never really got the chance for introductions then. Funny how it's come 'round seven years later. It's just a pity that it's under..." he gave a grim look to her lack of a hand, trying still to offer a smile, "...regrettable circumstances."
"O-Oh," Kristen said. Then, agreeing morosely with his estimation of said circumstances, "Yeah."
"Well. Let's have a look, then."
It didn't take Owen all that long to examine Kristen's wound. He asked her some questions as he did so, as gently as he could given the nature of them. Do you still have your severed hand? No. Do you have any pieces at all of your severed hand? No. What type of magic inflicted the wound? Arcane. Are there any more wounds on your body? No, not at this present time. Were you then, or are you now, afflicted with any kind of curse? No, not to my knowledge. Were you then, or are you now, afflicted with any kind of illness? No.
Other than feeling sick over what happened with Raf, but this she did not say. Not with words, at any rate. Her eyes, her colorless expression, likely betrayed her inner feelings of the matter.
Owen sat down heavily on the bed beside Kristen. Said by way of preamble to his forthcoming conclusion, "Healing is a means of reconstituting what has been lost. The body does this naturally, as you well know. Magical healing can go beyond what is natural, but it is not without its limits. Typical battlefield wounds—things like slashing injuries, puncturing—are a relatively simple matter. Consider a garment, a shirt if you will, that has been slashed with a knife, or punctured with the same; mending such damage is easy, because the vast majority of the material in proximity is still present and in its normal condition. Yet if that shirt were obliterated in some fashion?"
"Oh gods..." Kristen said.
Owen raised his hand. "No, no. I don't mean to say that it is hopeless. I meant only for you to understand how difficult this will be." A minor pause. "You have a formal education in mathematics, is that right?"
Kristen nodded hesitantly, as if somehow giving the "wrong" answer might doom her to being shed of her hand forever. "Y-Yes. Yes, I do."
"Okay, this will be easy for you to understand then. In most arts of healing, the greater the wound—which is to say, the greater the extent of the damage or volume of bodily material lost—the more the cost in time and magic to fully heal it, and this is exponential. Your entire right hand is missing; it isn't just flesh and muscle that has been torn and can be mended, like that shirt example."
"You...must create a shirt, wholly new, from nothing."
"Correct," Owen said. "Well. Mostly. Not exactly from nothing, since we still got the base of your wrist. We'll be working up from there."
"How long will this take? A few weeks? A month?"
Owen grew a little gloomy then, and before he even said anything she knew it would be bad news. "Kristen...this is going to require daily sessions of healing, completely draining my magic for each day. At best we're looking at a year of constant treatment, at worst two, so realistically I would put it at a year and a half—and this does not include interruptions to the schedule from, as I understand it, the missions you will be frequently sent out on."
"Two years...??" Kristen's voice was tiny and tipped with alarm. "I will be maimed for two years?"
"Better two years than the rest of your life." Owen took in a breath. Suggested gently, "I would look into solutions for the interim time."
The idea for prosthetics was presented, of course. Kristen imagined a peg leg at the mention of the word, some similar baton of wood affixed to her wrist, and initially balked at the suggestion. Owen assured her that options did exist that were much more sophisticated than that.
Kristen thought to write (struggling again with her left hand to do so) to her parents again, to make another plea for their help.
But, as it so happened, another idea presented itself. There were very adept crafters here at the Academy. Mayhap some missive didn't need to be sent all the way to Belgrath for master dwarven craftsmen if she could somehow beseech a peer here for their aid. Three names came to her attention: Tinker, the reclusive boy who was Everleigh's friend and who practically lived inside the workshop; Ralene, she who spent much of her spare time at the forge.
And, of course, Alistair. Who was there when it happened. Who Kristen likewise failed, for if only she had been stronger...if only she could have stopped him and Kalix...separated them...maybe...
She had to put it aside for now. Bottle her emotions.
In search of Alistair she went. Two places were likely: his room, or the forge.
Alistair Krixus
The Canal Campaign under Lord Walter Banick had not gone well—at least not for the Initiates involved. The massive hit to her marks for their failure was the least of it.
Gods...Raf. Raf. It had been her. She had asked him to help her step in-between Kalix and Alistair. And in so doing, he...he...
* * * * *
Kristen sat in the infirmary of the Academy. Still. Staring with a hollow gaze through the space where her right hand used to be, her face ashen.
The healer should be coming soon.
In the correspondence she received from Mother and Father, they were as aghast as could be communicated via the written word. They assured her that money was no object, that they would secure for her only the best they could possibly find.
* * * * *
Kristen sat in the infirmary of the Academy, and at last the healer arrived. A man, middle-aged, with groomed brown hair and beard. A friendly, capable look to him. And, as well, something about him struck Kristen as familiar.
The healer placed his bag down beside the bed in which Kristen was sat. He offered her a warm smile. Placed his hands on his hips in consideration. "Lady Kristen Pirian. Here you are, all grown up now. It's...astonishing how time passes." In his voice a slight—and fading—accent.
Kristen was brought out her despondence and her worries by confusion. "I'm...I'm sorry, do I...know you?"
He placed a hand to his chest and offered a small bow. "Owen Mason. I was there in the Battle of the Blades. I caught a few glimpses of you after we rescued you, but, well, never really got the chance for introductions then. Funny how it's come 'round seven years later. It's just a pity that it's under..." he gave a grim look to her lack of a hand, trying still to offer a smile, "...regrettable circumstances."
"O-Oh," Kristen said. Then, agreeing morosely with his estimation of said circumstances, "Yeah."
"Well. Let's have a look, then."
It didn't take Owen all that long to examine Kristen's wound. He asked her some questions as he did so, as gently as he could given the nature of them. Do you still have your severed hand? No. Do you have any pieces at all of your severed hand? No. What type of magic inflicted the wound? Arcane. Are there any more wounds on your body? No, not at this present time. Were you then, or are you now, afflicted with any kind of curse? No, not to my knowledge. Were you then, or are you now, afflicted with any kind of illness? No.
Other than feeling sick over what happened with Raf, but this she did not say. Not with words, at any rate. Her eyes, her colorless expression, likely betrayed her inner feelings of the matter.
Owen sat down heavily on the bed beside Kristen. Said by way of preamble to his forthcoming conclusion, "Healing is a means of reconstituting what has been lost. The body does this naturally, as you well know. Magical healing can go beyond what is natural, but it is not without its limits. Typical battlefield wounds—things like slashing injuries, puncturing—are a relatively simple matter. Consider a garment, a shirt if you will, that has been slashed with a knife, or punctured with the same; mending such damage is easy, because the vast majority of the material in proximity is still present and in its normal condition. Yet if that shirt were obliterated in some fashion?"
"Oh gods..." Kristen said.
Owen raised his hand. "No, no. I don't mean to say that it is hopeless. I meant only for you to understand how difficult this will be." A minor pause. "You have a formal education in mathematics, is that right?"
Kristen nodded hesitantly, as if somehow giving the "wrong" answer might doom her to being shed of her hand forever. "Y-Yes. Yes, I do."
"Okay, this will be easy for you to understand then. In most arts of healing, the greater the wound—which is to say, the greater the extent of the damage or volume of bodily material lost—the more the cost in time and magic to fully heal it, and this is exponential. Your entire right hand is missing; it isn't just flesh and muscle that has been torn and can be mended, like that shirt example."
"You...must create a shirt, wholly new, from nothing."
"Correct," Owen said. "Well. Mostly. Not exactly from nothing, since we still got the base of your wrist. We'll be working up from there."
"How long will this take? A few weeks? A month?"
Owen grew a little gloomy then, and before he even said anything she knew it would be bad news. "Kristen...this is going to require daily sessions of healing, completely draining my magic for each day. At best we're looking at a year of constant treatment, at worst two, so realistically I would put it at a year and a half—and this does not include interruptions to the schedule from, as I understand it, the missions you will be frequently sent out on."
"Two years...??" Kristen's voice was tiny and tipped with alarm. "I will be maimed for two years?"
"Better two years than the rest of your life." Owen took in a breath. Suggested gently, "I would look into solutions for the interim time."
* * * * *
The idea for prosthetics was presented, of course. Kristen imagined a peg leg at the mention of the word, some similar baton of wood affixed to her wrist, and initially balked at the suggestion. Owen assured her that options did exist that were much more sophisticated than that.
Kristen thought to write (struggling again with her left hand to do so) to her parents again, to make another plea for their help.
But, as it so happened, another idea presented itself. There were very adept crafters here at the Academy. Mayhap some missive didn't need to be sent all the way to Belgrath for master dwarven craftsmen if she could somehow beseech a peer here for their aid. Three names came to her attention: Tinker, the reclusive boy who was Everleigh's friend and who practically lived inside the workshop; Ralene, she who spent much of her spare time at the forge.
And, of course, Alistair. Who was there when it happened. Who Kristen likewise failed, for if only she had been stronger...if only she could have stopped him and Kalix...separated them...maybe...
She had to put it aside for now. Bottle her emotions.
In search of Alistair she went. Two places were likely: his room, or the forge.
Alistair Krixus
