Sparky
Registered User
On the shore:
Oliver's inert body tensed spasmodically as the blaze of Pelor's healing channeled through Fendric. He gasped awake and stood unsteadily, ears roaring, eyes blinded by a sun that only he had seen. He shook his head, leaning on the arm of someone who'd bent to help, by the smell it had to be Xiao. The outlander just smelled... different. He also smelled blood. And char. Leather. And over it all, the pungent sea. All the scents were so clear. He opened bleary eyes and couldn’t see. Panic flared and faded as shapes began to resolve themselves. Fendric was talking, Oliver could see his lips moving but couldn’t make out the words.
The old man leaned heavily on his helper – it was Xiao and tried to gather his thoughts. It was all a jumble. They were being attacked. The horses were screaming. Oliver had been running. The flying. Then blackness. And then a great white light and a softness, like cool fingers on his forhead. And then burning. There was a new comer. Several. Some of them wore the blasted yellow scarves. And one didn’t. The one without the scarf kept glancing seaward and Oliver found himself scanning the horizon out at sea, as much as could be seen through the driving rain. Nurthk clapped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and said something encouraging. At least, that’s what the old guy thought it was, he still couldn’t quite hear.
There was some mention of men hurt and shelter. They were moving. Down the beach. With the remaining horses. They were leaving the dead horses behind and… Winkle!
Oliver turned back and stumbled on the rocks as he let go of Xiao’s supporting arm. The owlet was hopping down the beach, fluttering indignantly as it shook itself to shed the rain, but keeping pace with the old man and his escort. He smiled at the bird and turned back to Xiao nodding that he was ready to move on. He looked over his shoulder as the young man guided him carefully over the rocks… they’d gone far enough down the beach, and the rain was strong enough, that all he could make out of the horses were dim humps.
In the caves:
Oliver arrives at the cave weak-kneed and exhausted, but shrugs off any encouragement to rest, helping as much as he can. Not with the heavy lifting mind - all he'd be good for is carrying stones - but with shoring up the passages. Well, with directing the efforts. He has a good mechanical mind and the groans of the rocks seemed to make some sort of sense. I must have hit my head when I fell.
He works with the others for an hour before leaning against a wall, a dirty, tattooed hand pressed to his forehead, and another to his belly. "I don't feel..." with that he slumps to the floor. Winkle flies down from a perch he'd taken and bleeks at the unconscious man. Louder and louder until finally someone hears and takes Oliver away. Winkle buffets the samaritan thoroughly before being driven off. He flaps off to a perch and glowers down at the samaritan and Oliver.
The old man wakes up several hours later to find his companions gathered around in various activities. Some are dozing, studying, eating. They look tired and strained. His own head is throbbing something fierce. Winkle is perched on the handle of a shovel and is peering around the cave, golden eyes wide and unblinking.
He remembers the rushing feeling and blackness coming. He must have fainted. "How many?" he mutters, wincing as he hitches himself into a sitting position.
Oliver's inert body tensed spasmodically as the blaze of Pelor's healing channeled through Fendric. He gasped awake and stood unsteadily, ears roaring, eyes blinded by a sun that only he had seen. He shook his head, leaning on the arm of someone who'd bent to help, by the smell it had to be Xiao. The outlander just smelled... different. He also smelled blood. And char. Leather. And over it all, the pungent sea. All the scents were so clear. He opened bleary eyes and couldn’t see. Panic flared and faded as shapes began to resolve themselves. Fendric was talking, Oliver could see his lips moving but couldn’t make out the words.
The old man leaned heavily on his helper – it was Xiao and tried to gather his thoughts. It was all a jumble. They were being attacked. The horses were screaming. Oliver had been running. The flying. Then blackness. And then a great white light and a softness, like cool fingers on his forhead. And then burning. There was a new comer. Several. Some of them wore the blasted yellow scarves. And one didn’t. The one without the scarf kept glancing seaward and Oliver found himself scanning the horizon out at sea, as much as could be seen through the driving rain. Nurthk clapped a hand on Oliver’s shoulder and said something encouraging. At least, that’s what the old guy thought it was, he still couldn’t quite hear.
There was some mention of men hurt and shelter. They were moving. Down the beach. With the remaining horses. They were leaving the dead horses behind and… Winkle!
Oliver turned back and stumbled on the rocks as he let go of Xiao’s supporting arm. The owlet was hopping down the beach, fluttering indignantly as it shook itself to shed the rain, but keeping pace with the old man and his escort. He smiled at the bird and turned back to Xiao nodding that he was ready to move on. He looked over his shoulder as the young man guided him carefully over the rocks… they’d gone far enough down the beach, and the rain was strong enough, that all he could make out of the horses were dim humps.
In the caves:
Oliver arrives at the cave weak-kneed and exhausted, but shrugs off any encouragement to rest, helping as much as he can. Not with the heavy lifting mind - all he'd be good for is carrying stones - but with shoring up the passages. Well, with directing the efforts. He has a good mechanical mind and the groans of the rocks seemed to make some sort of sense. I must have hit my head when I fell.
He works with the others for an hour before leaning against a wall, a dirty, tattooed hand pressed to his forehead, and another to his belly. "I don't feel..." with that he slumps to the floor. Winkle flies down from a perch he'd taken and bleeks at the unconscious man. Louder and louder until finally someone hears and takes Oliver away. Winkle buffets the samaritan thoroughly before being driven off. He flaps off to a perch and glowers down at the samaritan and Oliver.
The old man wakes up several hours later to find his companions gathered around in various activities. Some are dozing, studying, eating. They look tired and strained. His own head is throbbing something fierce. Winkle is perched on the handle of a shovel and is peering around the cave, golden eyes wide and unblinking.
He remembers the rushing feeling and blackness coming. He must have fainted. "How many?" he mutters, wincing as he hitches himself into a sitting position.
