Vernon had prepared for this from the day he left the temple. He had heard these stories, again and again, to the point where they were less the true experiences of his elders, and more the endless drone of an urban legend, like those stories about the troll under the bridge. But the stories were suddenly coming to life around Vernon, the screams, the unearthly glow, the cold emanation from the skin of the creatures... Wraiths. He knew it for sure. The soothing warmth of his god was nothing against them. They almost seemed to laugh. But when all was said and done, they were defeated. Vernon looked over his fellows, guessed how long had gone by since they acquired these wounds and began tapping. He kept a steady beat, like they had taught him in classes.
"Torgusufaada, you have to be ready when I tell you..." The orc glowered at his companion. His pearly tusks ground up against his upper lip, and his breathing was shallow. "We're not going anywhere for a while. The touch of a wraith takes a while to accomodate itself to your body."
"What's a wraith, and why are you tapping that stick, Vern?" Cjen, a callous cutpurse, but skilled, and worth his weight in cynicism.
"I'm a healer, you worm. Let me do my job. Stay put and keep an eye out." Torgusufaada would not appreciate the weight, and perhaps he'd never understand what Vernon was doing for him, but this cleric wasn't going to make a mockery of his own god's teachings. Eighty six thousand and four hundred clicks. If he started casting his spells after eighty six thousand, then everything would be fine. Over the course of the night he refused to respond to his party's calls for hospital aid, and did not engage in prayer. They divied up the watches, but Vernon kept his beat steady, calmly staring straight ahead and counting. The steady beat was his only companion through the night on the cold stone floor. He only hoped that it wasn't attracting any attention. The orc warrior was weak, and would need this help. They had to fight off the spirits together. He would have to call on his inner strength.
Time passed quickly by no means. But when it came, Vernon stood. He imbued his ally with strength of body, gave him resistance to the dark touch of the evil planes, and the much simpler loving caress of his god, all to ease the transition. Just before the time, Vernon began to work Togusufaada, convincing him to summon every ounce of inner strength. He called to Cjen and Marcus to grab the Orc by his arms. He would not be easy to hold down. Then there was the moment of truth. Darkness could be seen to creep into Torg's eyes, and his body writhed, half from anger and half from pain. In the end it was clear that he had beaten the spirits.
Vernon now knew that one day he would have a story to tell. A story of how simply counting the passage of time can be enough to save a friend.
Huh? Maybe? What do you think?
