>>5295812When you awaken more properly, you see that your entire retinue has assembled in the Devourer’s den. You have been laid out flat on the floor, a pack placed under your head. Glowie—actually Glowie, this time—is seated next to you, her tail and rear pressed to your side and her back turned. You assume she’d be holding your hand if there were not so many here to observe her, and so much attention upon you in particular. It does not take the others long to realize you are conscious.
“Superior One!”
“Dragonborn, are you okay? Can you stand?”
“Fool! Do not ask him to stand so soon after a fainting spell.”
“What happened?”
“You did it! You cra — you Brave and Noble Ones actually did it, you slew that monster!”
You wave away the thronging Reptilians, and look about for the Novice. When you spy her tending to the Pit-Guard’s Apprentice, you stand—with Glowie’s aid, and that of the Bastard. This lasts just until you regain your footing, and shrug them away to go her on your own, walking under your own power. The dizziness is gone, but grogginess remains.
“How is he?” you ask the Novice, who looks over her shoulder at you as you approach, without properly and respectfully turning to face you fully.
“He will live,” she says, “with a week or two to recover, and some physiotherapy.”
“So he’s in no state to fight, then,” you note.
“Not even to travel,” she says, “though we can transport him.”
“Will potions help?” you ask.
“What potions?” the Novice snaps. “I can brew some if we but stay in one place long enough, and without distractions, but…”
She stops, sighs, and shakes her head. “They will speed the recovery, but not correct deep and lasting injuries. Not the sort which I can make with ingredients on hand, anyway.”
“What of the others?” you ask. “The Pit-Guard, the one called Oluwadamilare?”
“The Degenerate, Oluwa-whatever, his leg is broken,” she says matter-of-factly. “We improvised a splint from the chitin of the rust-monster you slew, but it needs proper medical care. He will limp for the rest of his life, without such care, and without rest.”
Your heart falls. You’d thought their survival was a boon to you and your expedition, but now it seems they are just as lost to you—militarily, at least—as if they’d died.
“And the Pit-Guard?” you ask, by now expecting only further disappointment.
“A hardy son-of-a-Steeltalon,” the Novice remarks, tapping a talon idly on the stone. “Bruised and tender, and his shoulder is hurt—the fool blocked a blow from that huge thing with his SHOULDER?—but it will recover. Until then, he has some limited motion in that arm, but give it a few days and he will recover.”
A small blessing, at least.
