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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Sparky" data-source="post: 3875593" data-attributes="member: 13681">Oliver slumps to the ground exhausted, tiredness and the ache of bones and of wounds overriding caution. Though not for long. With a pained grunt, the old man heaves himself upright and is glad to at least see no further loss amongst their company.   He spies Cray and his potion, the big man moving to help the wounded. Oliver hurries to intercept him, "Pelor blesses that one..." he gestures vaguely in Fendric's direction with a short-sword smeared with mucus and ichor, "...Abundantly." He smiles at a joke just for himself before continuing, coughing into the crook of his arm, "I'd save it for a time when Fendric... when..." he makes a warding sign across his chest. "I'd save it."   He hardly knows anyone here.  The older man, quite in spite of himself, pats the younger man on his shoulder, an awkward feat at best with weapons in hand, a feeling of affection toward him. That's uncommon generous.   He is surprised at the silvery light that blooms in his palm, shining out in the gaps between bloody fingers curled around the hilt of his sword. The light leaks out between his fingers and sinks surreptituously into Cray's shoulder, a pool of black-limned quicksilver. Gone in an instant. Oliver's eyes dart around in pure puzzlement.   Winkle hoots from a perch high on one of the wagons. He'd returned from a high, circling gyre above the site of the camp and the grisly attacks and now watched Oliver with slow-blinking amber eyes.OOC:Cure Light Wounds on Cray: 5</blockquote>

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