Rolled 7, 19, 16, 14, 1, 9, 2 = 68 (7d20)
>>5798968>>5798916>>5798754>>5798664>>5798616>>5798567>>5798530It was almost funny. You’d gotten into this mess and battled—killed and maimed, even—several goblins to help a fellow fey… But, with your ‘cousins’ gone, you weren’t inclined to place your trust in them. Pearce was hurt and ill, then and there, and where are THEY? You understood why they might have fled—or you would later, when you were less embittered by the experience—but that didn’t change the fact that they’d abandoned you to your fate. Who was to say then, if they would honour ancient laws of hospitality and of debt, and help you in that hour of need?
Instead, you’d opted to trust a goblin.
Well, ‘trust’ was a strong word. You checked each of the dead and dying bandits who had been left behind, seeking one with a high probability of recovery. You’d had hopes for the patch-eyed female, but she must have rallied and recovered during the distraction of your father’s blood retort. Or maybe she’d been carried away by a friend, if indeed goblins had such camaraderie or chivalry in them? Regardless, you found only two candidates both present and breathing and, with one gurgling blood and stabbed through the centre-mass, you opted for the other.
Your healing spells could only do so much as a mere Initiate, even a Senior Initiate, and you were too low on mystical energy to begin improvising.
The other felled foe who you found in a state of near-death was obviously in shock, but conscious—a very promising start, all things considered. He was missing an arm… Or not MISSING it, exactly. It was on the ground next to him, and as he drew slow, steady breaths, he stared at it was dull eyes, saying nothing.
“Hello?”
He didn’t register your approach. He just stared at his arm. Even as you kneeled next to him and waved a hand before his face he said and did nothing.
“Careful, my child!” Rudolfo warned you. “A cornered rat can be vicious.”
You nodded, but didn’t take your eyes off of the goblin, nor back away. Instead, you reached out and grabbed his fallen arm. THAT got his attention—even as you had to gulp back a wave of nausea at the pallid, lifeless green skin, and the dribbling, brownish blood.
“You want this?” you asked, uncertain of his grasp of the Northern Common-tongue.
His lack of response offered no greater clarity. Still, as you handed it to him—well, to his own REMAINING hand—he accepted it. He watched you with dazed, boggled yellow eyes as you guided the arm to the stump where it was once attached. Your father watched you closely, hand on the hilt of his blade, ready to intervene. You took a deep breath, and expended what little was left of your mystical ability.
“<Monstrous Regeneration!>”
