When Osric closed the door to his house to vanish within, Berrod turned around and limped to the gate, and down the stairway. The Highlander was in a pitiable state. A mixture of sweat and stream water soaked him to the skin and matted his hair to a dark red. The hair that speckled his musculature had its pattern disturbed by large purple welts and bruises. The leather gauntlet on his right hand was burnt, and his harness had near snapped right off. It didn’t help that he stank horribly of exertion far past a healthy musk into a sour reek of mixing old and new perspiration. He could have sworn a chunk of his left ear was missing – but in truth it was just an angry, bruised red.
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The injured Hyur only managed to make it around the corner before his legs gave way from underneath him. The very last of the mixed energies from his first and second had dried up, leaving him to rely on his long exhausted physical power to keep going. A heavy series of wet thuds echoed against the nearby wall as Berrod crumpled to the floor. He felt agony shoot up his left leg and arm; he knew at once that they had not truly healed – the second had kept them together just for the sake of functioning. It was not within his power to mend broken bones, and without a doubt, Osric had broken both his arm and leg in a few places.
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Pride alone kept the bass cry of dolor in his chest. Full did he suffer, for his Sacral had nothing left to give. The root was also exhausted, and the pain that assailed him left him in no condition to focus on drawing from the land. He heaved, but nothing came up – it had all been emptied from him near the stream. There had been much blood mixed in with the bile. Likely Osric’s strikes had damaged him internally as well. Berrod laid there and shivered for a non-discerned period of time, wheezing loudly. No one passed by, and the night was still cool – so it could not have been long.
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Incapacity came with the somewhat unfortunate freedom to think, to let his mind wander. One below for each one above. He had been warned about going against the nature of each of his seats of power, that they would only lead to him being less effective  if he was able to call upon them at all. Now, he was being told the opposite. Berrod wanted very badly to accuse one man or the other of lying; either his old Master or Osric, but to his churning irritation, he knew both men to be far from liars – at least not to him. Osric had discovered something he had not; tapped into something he hadn’t the barest clue about.
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Bubbling envy was cut short by a slight ache in his knees,which in turn triggered recollection. Fear and Anger. He had felt both, in different capacities. He had genuinely feared for his life when he felt his arm shatter under Osric’s roundhouse, and the revelations afterward had certainly incensed him enough to throw the poor Midlander to the ground. Guilt flushed through him as the image of the other man’s hurt and despaired face emerged in his mind. He’d have to give him a real apology. Somehow. Without actually saying it. Or him knowing. Something like that.
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Berrod was only vaguely aware of the puddle forming beneath him; his soaked leathers were draining onto the cobblestone below – and perhaps the cold sweat from his agony contributed in a small amount. He had to make it home. He had to rest, he had to heal, then he’d try to figure things out. Using his right arm and leg, the bulky Highlander dragged himself down the lane and around the bend to the Aetheryte. He knew the one he needed to get to – the Eastern main; it was right outside the Agency Headquarters. There was only one problem; he didn’t have the spiritual fortitude at that moment. Teleportation was not going to happen after he had so thoroughly spent himself.
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What he did have however, was a linkpearl. A few, in fact.Who would he call? Caleb or Caden? No, they’d worry and then watch him like a hawk. Someone from the Agency? Good people, but they were annoying with all their weird questions and assumptions. They didn’t understand. One of the Monks, perhaps? That negative was far too immediate for his own comfort. A sudden thought occurred to him. With haste, the redhead dug a rather bright green one from his soaked satchel and put it to use.
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“Ginny?†came the hoarse and desperate plea. There was no disguising the whimpering in his voice, or the labor of his breathing.  “Gins, please be there, I’m in trouble.â€
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