Gundhosh hobbles in with the aid of a Raven escort. Gundhosh nods to Fauthmog. "Aye, tis the temple worker. I came to get these bloody rags off my head in exchange for new ones. Can you help?"
Fauthmog is seated across the room, flanked a thick pelt of fur wound about him as if it were a nest. He has a small stack of scrolls set on a low table before him, at the center of which burns a red candle whose meandering smoke is joined by that of curling steam rising from a small cup. Fauthmog looks up from his studies, at first perplexed. No doubt disoriented from the sudden change his mind had to go through to shift from a world of runes and thought to thta of images. "Help?" he manages to say at last. "Ah, yer wounds."
Gundhosh nods slowly. The escort helps him where Fauth sits, careful not to disturb his cerimonial items. He sits, crosslegged, facing Fauth.
Fauthmog puts the scroll aside, at the foot of the table, then reaches for the steaming cup to take a sip. "I'm not one of this Temple's healers but come, let me see."
Gundhosh leans forward and puts his head down, showing Fauth the bloody bandages on the top of his head.
Fauthmog sips a dark liquid, if liquid it can be called since it oozes rather than flows like any normal fluid. After two gulps of the thick drink, he leans forward motioning for you to move into the light for a better look.
The flickering light of the candle dances from shadow to shadow, the darkness receding before its touch before rallying and taking what was once its own onece the flame sways to a new location. The candle, if looked at, had evidently been left burning for a good time, wax having run to the very table's surface. "Ah." Fauthmog undoes one of the bandages with care, the coagulated blood pulling your hair with it.
Gundhosh winces, but does not cry out. His skull is swollen, with black and blue a contrast against his ashen skin. He has stiches on his crown, and jagged bones can be seen underneath where the shaman tried to repair the fracture.
Fauthmog places your helm to one side. "You shouldn't be wearing this with that cut of yours. Not too good for healing and I'd keep out of fights for a while."
Gundhosh takes off Studded Leather Helmet.
Gundhosh mumbles something inaudable.
Fauthmog pushes some stubborn strands of hair from the wound, having to pull some out from under a buildup of dried blood. He then begins to gently rub the wounds surrounding areas, taking care not to aggrevate the cuts. "Now, how did this happen?"
Gundhosh coughs lightly, there is slight evedence of fluid in his lungs. He finally manages to speak, "I know not. Bregk brought be back from Moria. That is all I remember. I was travelling with Kdruk, but I know not where he is. I hope his fate was better."
A bit of your dried blood flakes off then end of a lock of hair and falls into the molten pool of wax at the candle's center while Fauthmog was examining you. The blood softens, seperates into droplets of dark crimson until soon enough it is fully consumed by the liquid fire.
Gundhosh watches the light on the floor flicker with the candle. He studies the dancing shapes and imagines them making pictures mirroring his fears. He clenches his teeth together at the workers prodings.
Fauthmog murmurs what you guess to be a prayer while circling the largest cut in a counterclockwise series of arcs. "Moria.. you were to Moria?"
Gundhosh replies to the statement as best he can through clenched teeth. "Aye. Some troll chieftain wished to speak with us. But cannot remember if we say him or not.
Fauthmog chuckles softly, while one hand dissapears under the folds of his cloak. "An olog. Moria is infested with them I hear. Not a good Hold. Weak uruk, weaker leaders." His lips curl into a grimace while his other hand is lowered to your chest.
Gundhosh balls his hands into fists, and relaxes them, then clenching again. His nine finger's knuckles going to an even lighter shade of white when he balls them tightly. He blinks, and he is a bit disorientated, as he has been since his awakening from his coma. He sits up to comindate the search of his chest. With the help of the Raven that brought him in, his armor is removed. Gundhosh takes off Studded Leather Armor.
Fauthmog's palm is placed upon your chest, its press barely felt as it rises and falls with each of your breaths. "And you said Kdruk was with you.. The Chieftain could be lost then in a battle?" His eyes swivel and meet the wound upon your skull as if to judge its cause.
Fauthmog pulls out a small iron container from the receses of the many layered robe. Clink. It clips the small cup and is placed on your side of the table before being opened.
Bruises and cuts from a bludgeon weapon adorn the chest and sides of the albino Hai. On his left side is a bruise that is nearly 10 inches long. It is swollen but shows no signs of broken ribs. When seen from behind, a stab wound is sitting in the middle of his back, near the spine, and another bruise sits lower.
Gundhosh sighs with the thought, "Aye, he could be dead. Or he may have abandoned me. I do not know why. My LT. leaves on the marrow to investigate and should return soon there after with some sort of a report.
You are greeted by a strong scent of.. what else to call it but age? The container holds a generous portion of dark coloured balm. Fauthmog dabs three of his fingers with it then begins to apply it to each of your wounds, covering the more damaged regions with greater care and greater quantities. "And you don't know who did this to you then.. Perhaps whiteskin."
Gundhosh shrugs, "I know not a whiteskin that uses a weapon that would do this."
Fauthmog rids his fingers of the excess balm by whiping it on your used bandages. "How have you been sleeping since yer injuries?" Fauthmog points to a shelf upon which can be seen some bandages. His eyes locate one of your warriors, indicating for him to retrieve what is needed.
Gundhosh closes his hollow black eyes for a moment. He opens them again. It is difficult to tell with black on black pupil/iris arrangement, but when the flame dances just right, you can see his eyes are dialated. No doubt a concussion followed the fracture. He smirks, "The shaman says that my wounds look to be several days old. I don't remember any, so I assume I slept a lot." The Raven scout fetches the items Fauthmog calls for, ready to help where feels helpless.
Fauthmog smiles thinly. "I see." The mystic accepts the fresh bandages with a barely noticeable nod. He then places them on the table's edge, part of it balanced on nothing but air.. a torn strand quivering from some otherwise unnoticed current. "Come, give me your left arm." His hands reach out to meet you half-way.
Gundhosh raises his left arm with effert from the bruised muscles on his side. He eases his forarm into Fauth's hand with a grunt.
Fauthmog cradles your arm in hand in order to ease some of your pain and allow a rest. The other hand reaches under a table.. a rustling then a parchment is brought forth.
Fauthmog reaches under a blanket of papers to retrieve a dagger, its handle etched with a winding vine of thorns. "Hold yerself still now."
Gundhosh grits his teeth, closing his eyes.
Fauthmog turns the blade in hand, its clean and no doubt sharp edge shattering the light. Fauthmog doesn't offer an explanation for his actions, eyes now hooded and masked in shadow while his lips whisper words alien to your understanding.
The blade's point touches your skin, piercing it with little trouble. A bead of blood rises and is followed by another, larger one.. each drawn from this newly made well.
Gundhosh hmms to himself a battle hymn, one that speak of a mighty war in which the Ravens played a turning point and sealed the victory. He feels the blade pierce his flesh, but takes confort from the guards standing next to him, and the Raven spirit overlooking him. His voice cracks in pain, but the hymn continues.
The candle's flame shifts directions, holding steady in your direction as if pulled by a breeze yet you feel nothing but stillness in the air. Whispers of the last words in the incantation.. ending with a low hiss or call to some nameless spirit. The blood collects on the dagger's end before it is pulled back and near the blank parchment.
Gundhosh opens his eyes slowly and with exaggerated care, he looks down at his arm, still in Fauth's grasp.
One drop, then another falls to the paper. The parchment readily accepts each, a smudge growing where they landed. "Now watch." is all the Fauthmog says after releasing you of his hold.
Fauthmog uses the dagger as one would a quill, your blood acting as ink. The room is quiet but for the sound of metal scratching paper.. a rune is being drawn and fast drying at the blade's passing.
Gundhosh blinks and watches with a sort of reverant awe. He arm now rests at his side, a few drops of black blood running down to his palm, his fingers. He feels the sticky warmth but makes no movement to stop it.
The candle's flame flickers and seems to go out.. but it bursts into new life, brighter than ever. It's finger turns tight circles, probing, thirsting. Fauthmog lays the dagger down once the work is complete. The parchment is raised and brought near to the fire.
The Raven escort kreens his neck to get a better look at the parchment. Gundhosh watches the methodical movement of Fauthmog and narrows his eyes, trying to focus on the characters.
Fauthmog's lids fall back, the entirety of his eyes now left to the mercy of the light.. a light which is fast turning blue and now easing to one side: that of the parchment. The paper's edge catches fire, yellow at first then red, similar to a freshly bled creature.
The white skin of the Chieftain seems radiant from the light of the candle compared to the realitive darkness of the classroom. No sound can be heard by the occasional rasp that comes from Gundhosh himself. An array of colors washes over his body, over his soul, as the parchment ignites.
The rune turns a deep black once it is licked by the flames and one could imagine it still hanging in mid-air even after it is fully consumed and the ashes drifting to the table's top.
Fauthmog looks up, eyes locked onto yours. Then a sudden darkness falls on the room as the clandle dies and belches a thick stream of aggitated smoke.
Gundhosh flares his nostrils as the pudget smell of the candle dying reaches his nose. He keeps his eyes entrained on Frathmog. He clears his throat queitly.
Slowly the room grows brighter or perhaps it is no more than your eyes adjusting to the gloom. "Yer spirit will be at rest. Here let me work the bandages."
Fauthmog unfurls the bandage, tearing into appropriate lengths to cover your wounds. He leans forward for greater reach then slowly winds them around your bruises. "Come to me if you need anything more. No need to be injured just to see me." He smiles.
The words 'Yer spirit will be at rest." seem to pierce the mind of the greymatter of the Chieftain and slice it apart again and again. It raises questions as to what was the status of his spirt before? Doubt crawl into his head, as do fears. He nods vacantly at the Helper, feeling more drained then by any session he has had with the shaman.
Fauthmog's hands are placed before him, each at angle and palm down. "Is there anything else you need?"
Gundhosh stares through Fauthmog for a moment. Then his eyes come into focus and he smiles, his slight lower tusks protuding a bit. His eyes twinkle from an inner source that was not there moments ago. He shakes his head slowly at the worker. "You have done more then you may know. I, the Ravens, are thankful."
Fauthmog nods, smile growing. "Good. Yer wounds will soon follow and heal. You'll have no more than scars to remind you of them."
Fauthmog chuckles softly. "And perhaps then you can come and share a drink with me.." his eyes dart to the cup and back.
Gundhosh begins to stand, the Raven escort coming to help him, but the Chieftain has already managed to gain his feet. He nods to Fauthmog, one that sends many messages at once. "Aye, I give my word that soon we share a drink." He begins to limp to the door, but more limber then when he entered eventhough he has been sitting for the duration of the session with little movement. The escort follows him quiet, and curiously. Looks of bewilderment cover their faces quiet obviously.
A student, the first you've seen today, enters the room: curiously eying the strange visitors.
Fauthmog's smile continues to hold. "Farewell Chieftain." He looks to your back, hands already busy recovering the scroll that was being studied not too long ago,
Gundhosh is struck that it is odd no other students were here. He grunts a greeting to the student and a farewell to Fauthmog.
Gundhosh heads off into the Temple.
Gundhosh has left.
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