Much like the party and much like the battlefield, what struck Ashur first was the smell.
His eyes flew open, and on reflex he attempted to sit up, only to receive a sharp, painful reprimand from what was left of his ribcage that caused him to collapse backwards onto the cot. The pungent aroma was from a traditional but increasingly rare poultice mixed from the gentian plant, originally native to Coerthas but mostly wiped out due to the everwinter. In a fit of irony, the only place one could reliably find the herb these days was in the wilds of Dravania.
It wasn't the most appropriate time to be thinking of herbalism, no, but doing so helped his mind focus on things other than the aches. Ashur blinked as his other senses began to return. He twisted his head on the pillow to get his bearings. This was the infirmary in Ishgard. Hospitaliers and chirurgeons alike shuffled between the cots, attending to the injured. Judging from the fact that he was indoors and not among the triage encampments, at least Ashur could take confidence in the fact that no one thought he was dead or dying, though the occasional pained wail rang through the infirmary. His torso was wrapped in bandages and a padded cloth had been affixed to his forehead, but other than that he didn't seem to be missing anything.
The battle? The Steps of Faith. The last thing Ashur remembered was being struck square in the chest by the vengeful swing of a diresaur's tail. Even recalling the incident made him wince. He placed the back of his hand over his forehead, his thoughts about to drift off in contemplating until a voice interrupted his reverie.
"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"
Peering over him was a Midlander woman, dressed in the white robes of a chirurgeon. Somewhat distressingly, her robes were marred in a few fresh blood stains, though this didn't seem to affect her demeanor at all. Warm brown eyes carefully scrutinized Ashur for anything out of the ordinary, and her chestnut-coloured hair was tied back in a tight, neat bun. Her sharp, angled features were accentuated by her serious expression
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," Ashur groaned slightly at another attempt to sit up, although the chirurgeon's hand firmly pushed him back onto the cot. "Although, not dead."
The chirurgeon smiled a grim, humourless smile, as if the gesture was more of a reflex than a genuine expression as she knelt down and wordlessly began to pull off Ashur's bandages before being stopped by his grip on her arm. "Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it." Perhaps it was because of his upbringing in the Brume, but this chirurgeon's apparent lack of frugality in medical supplies was instinctively disconcerting to him.
"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice." Her lips were drawn into a tight line, although the glint in her eyes suggested anything but politeness.
Unable to form an adequate response, Ashur merely sighed and gave a slight wave. As the chirurgeon pulled off the bandages, the knight was greeted with an ugly, patched bruise across his chest. All things considered, it was remarkable that such a grisly wound looked worse than it felt. "Well then," Ashur muttered. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel."
The chirurgeon, in the midst of reapplying a fresh set of bandages, seemed to bristle at his casual comment. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."
Ashur blinked, not expecting his mild praise to provoke that kind of venomous outburst. He winced and gave a short gasp as the chirurgeon tightened the new set of bandages around his torso. A closer examination of his caretaker showed more detail; dark bags were under her eyes, and the bloodstains on her robe...triage doctrine demanded that any healing magic be used on those who can be saved, and since this chirurgeon didn't seem to be able or willing to use conjury, Ashur could only assume that most of her time had been spent trying to save or comfort the dying ones who had no hope.
The knight had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but his expression softened the more he thought about it, and he let the matter rest.
"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," the chirurgeon said tersely, brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." With that, the chirurgeon stood up to leave.
"All the better," Ashur grunted. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."
She paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin. "That's...a good way to look at it," the chirurgeon said lightly before stepping away to check on other wounded knights, but was again interrupted by Ashur clasping the ends of her robes. She turned her head, with any levity on her face replaced with some annoyance.
"Er..." Ashur suddenly felt uncertain about this, judging by the pointed glare the chirurgeon shot at him. However, what she said about spending his thanks resounded with him. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."
The chirurgeon seemed somewhat taken aback by his request, though her mask of composure affixed itself to her face with remarkable speed. "Stella," she replied, her own severe countenance softening.
Ashur gave a short, affirmative nod. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."
Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before moving down to another aisle of cots, and Ashur felt a wave of exhaustion come over him as he relaxed into the cot for some needed rest.
His eyes flew open, and on reflex he attempted to sit up, only to receive a sharp, painful reprimand from what was left of his ribcage that caused him to collapse backwards onto the cot. The pungent aroma was from a traditional but increasingly rare poultice mixed from the gentian plant, originally native to Coerthas but mostly wiped out due to the everwinter. In a fit of irony, the only place one could reliably find the herb these days was in the wilds of Dravania.
It wasn't the most appropriate time to be thinking of herbalism, no, but doing so helped his mind focus on things other than the aches. Ashur blinked as his other senses began to return. He twisted his head on the pillow to get his bearings. This was the infirmary in Ishgard. Hospitaliers and chirurgeons alike shuffled between the cots, attending to the injured. Judging from the fact that he was indoors and not among the triage encampments, at least Ashur could take confidence in the fact that no one thought he was dead or dying, though the occasional pained wail rang through the infirmary. His torso was wrapped in bandages and a padded cloth had been affixed to his forehead, but other than that he didn't seem to be missing anything.
The battle? The Steps of Faith. The last thing Ashur remembered was being struck square in the chest by the vengeful swing of a diresaur's tail. Even recalling the incident made him wince. He placed the back of his hand over his forehead, his thoughts about to drift off in contemplating until a voice interrupted his reverie.
"Ah, you're awake. How are you feeling?"
Peering over him was a Midlander woman, dressed in the white robes of a chirurgeon. Somewhat distressingly, her robes were marred in a few fresh blood stains, though this didn't seem to affect her demeanor at all. Warm brown eyes carefully scrutinized Ashur for anything out of the ordinary, and her chestnut-coloured hair was tied back in a tight, neat bun. Her sharp, angled features were accentuated by her serious expression
"Like I've been trampled by a herd of chocobos," Ashur groaned slightly at another attempt to sit up, although the chirurgeon's hand firmly pushed him back onto the cot. "Although, not dead."
The chirurgeon smiled a grim, humourless smile, as if the gesture was more of a reflex than a genuine expression as she knelt down and wordlessly began to pull off Ashur's bandages before being stopped by his grip on her arm. "Wait. This is a gentian poultice; you shouldn't waste it." Perhaps it was because of his upbringing in the Brume, but this chirurgeon's apparent lack of frugality in medical supplies was instinctively disconcerting to him.
"The gentian will regrow, in time. The same cannot be said of you if these wounds of yours are beset by infection because you wanted to save some poultice." Her lips were drawn into a tight line, although the glint in her eyes suggested anything but politeness.
Unable to form an adequate response, Ashur merely sighed and gave a slight wave. As the chirurgeon pulled off the bandages, the knight was greeted with an ugly, patched bruise across his chest. All things considered, it was remarkable that such a grisly wound looked worse than it felt. "Well then," Ashur muttered. "Thank the Fury for Ishgardian steel."
The chirurgeon, in the midst of reapplying a fresh set of bandages, seemed to bristle at his casual comment. "Your gratitude better spent on the ones who pulled you off the battlefield and away from the brink of death. Halone is busy enough claiming the souls that were 'offered' to Her."
Ashur blinked, not expecting his mild praise to provoke that kind of venomous outburst. He winced and gave a short gasp as the chirurgeon tightened the new set of bandages around his torso. A closer examination of his caretaker showed more detail; dark bags were under her eyes, and the bloodstains on her robe...triage doctrine demanded that any healing magic be used on those who can be saved, and since this chirurgeon didn't seem to be able or willing to use conjury, Ashur could only assume that most of her time had been spent trying to save or comfort the dying ones who had no hope.
The knight had a sharp retort on the tip of his tongue, but his expression softened the more he thought about it, and he let the matter rest.
"You'll have to stay here for at least a few more suns until you're well enough to move," the chirurgeon said tersely, brushing an errant strand of chestnut hair out of her eyes. "Unfortunately, there won't be a scar." With that, the chirurgeon stood up to leave.
"All the better," Ashur grunted. "A man with scars is just a man who was stupid enough to get hit in the first place."
She paused, the corner of her lips daring to curl into a slight grin. "That's...a good way to look at it," the chirurgeon said lightly before stepping away to check on other wounded knights, but was again interrupted by Ashur clasping the ends of her robes. She turned her head, with any levity on her face replaced with some annoyance.
"Er..." Ashur suddenly felt uncertain about this, judging by the pointed glare the chirurgeon shot at him. However, what she said about spending his thanks resounded with him. "May I...know your name? I'd like to better spend my gratitude. However briefly."
The chirurgeon seemed somewhat taken aback by his request, though her mask of composure affixed itself to her face with remarkable speed. "Stella," she replied, her own severe countenance softening.
Ashur gave a short, affirmative nod. "Thank you for saving my life, Lady Stella."
Stella simply returned his nod with a small one of her own, before moving down to another aisle of cots, and Ashur felt a wave of exhaustion come over him as he relaxed into the cot for some needed rest.
