Verkremond is standing over me when I come to. I'm lying in a very boring room, looks like some kind of clay or mud daub, with dirt for a floor. The 'bed' on which I've been placed is just a blanket on the dirt.

My arm has been wrapped in bandages, as has my torso, my legs, my other arm, and my face.

Okay, so looks like there were a few more injuries sustained in that whole fight than I really registered at the time.

"Heal?"

Nothing happens, so it must still be the same day. So much for the hope that a rest would refresh the assigned spells.

Then, since I know nothing about how this world works, just to verify whether I'm in an anti-magic room or something... "Bless?"

The clarity and focus of Bless washes over me in its usual flood.

Verkremond frowns and his eyebrow-beard scrunches up. "What is that you are doing?"

I shrug, as blase as can be given the circumstances. "Bless? It's a standard spell where I come from. No one would ever enter battle without it. Now, if I might turn that around on you for a moment, what am I doing here?"

His expression turns sly. "You are my healer now. Once you are recovered, you will go finish your quest so you may get another for me."

"You want to help me with my quest? The one that you were trying to murder me over this morning."

He shrugs. "A dead Healer gives but one quest. A live one can give many. If you were weak, you would be worthless apart from your one quest. But you are a Healer. So you will have more quests to give me."

"What if I don't want to give them to you?"

He tilts his head, eyebrow-beard furrowing again. "A dead healer still gives more quests than a rebellious one."

Interpretation: I'm his quest-generating slave until he decides he's tired of me or has obtained as much as possible, then he'll kill me or, more likely, keep using me as his personal healer until we both die of old age.

Nope. No thank you.

I start muttering my two spells over and over, hoping to grind my level up to where I can unlock heal and get myself out of here ASAP.

Verkremond doesn't comment, just stands there with the bored expression of one tasked with watching paint dry, and the vaguely puzzled expression of one watching paint change color on its own.

Around the sixtieth cast, I start to feel a sluggishness in the response of my inner strength. I've reached level 6 by now, but it's growing harder to keep going. There's a delay after each spell I speak now, and if I try to cast again before the sluggish energy responds, it only slows the process further.

"Bless." two, three, four, five, "Haste," two, three, four, five, "Bless," two, three, four, five...

It's something to pass the time, at least, and avoid thinking about how much pain I'm... oddly not in. If I think about my shredded arm, I can feel it throbbing and burning, but if I don't focus on it those sensations are distant.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

"Do you have another healer?" I ask Verkremond, since he's just standing there being boring. Someone clearly treated these injuries, and did something to keep them from overwhelming me. I refuse to believe it was this eyebrow-bearded oaf.

"Only a great slayer has his own healer," he says with obvious pride. "With a second, I will be able to enter the War of Chiefs. We will go far, and I will rule the world. But that is later. Now, you focus on healing yourself."

"If you have a healer already, why am I still injured?"

"Healers can do many things," Verkremond says, laughing, "but they cannot work miracles. To save you from death? Yes. To recover full health, that requires time and rest."

Interesting. Very interesting.

I return to my spellcasting, but the short break did nothing to refresh my flagging inner strength. I only manage a few more spells before weakness crawls up my spine and tingles down my legs and tries to choke me. My stomach roils and my head feels as though someone slammed a dinosaur into it repeatedly.

It's only by sheer effort of will that I remain seated upright. "Bless." It's ten seconds this time before the spell takes effect, and the nausea and weakness that follow the effort are acute enough that I decide against pushing my limits any further. This seems like the kind of world where, if casting too many times in quick succession will kill you, it wouldn't bother giving out an 'are you sure you want to do this' warning.

"I think I need a drink."

Verkremond tosses me a sloshing bag-thing. I almost drop it, my grip weakened so severely, but the promise of water lends strength to my trembling hands. I wrench it open and chug the entire contents in one long desperate go.

I feel only marginally better, but toss the empty sack back to Verkremond. "Thanks. I'm starving. Is there anything to eat around here?"

Verkremond frowns as though food is a foreign concept to him and shakes his head. "I must watch you. If someone comes and steals you from me, I will be eternally shamed."

"I won't let anyone steal me."

Verkremond laughs. "How would you stop them? You are no slayer. I have seen your strength, and it is a meager thing. If you cannot even resist me, how would you resist any other?"

"Are you... admitting weakness?"

Verkremond shrugs, unashamed. "I am only the greatest warrior because I have you. If others take you from me before I can become the strongest as well, then I will go back to being..." his face scrunches up and he shakes his head. "No. I will protect you, and you will help me become greater than any other."

Finally I sigh and give in to the desperate desire to lie down. "Well, then, if you'd rather I starve than risk anyone else getting a shot at me, then I suppose that's your business."

If I could fall asleep on demand, I'd do so now. I've never felt so thoroughly unwell. Those last dozen or so spells really took it out of me. It's like the general malaise of a really bad cold, dialed up to fifty.

Alas, I can't fall asleep on demand. I want to keep leveling, but the way I feel I'm worried it'll actually kill me.

"Status."

[Class: Healer (6)]

[Profession: Cook]

[Bravery Bonus: +1 to most-used stat. (Currently: Resistance)]

[Active Quest: Retrieve Knife from Schang Cat. Time remaining: 2 days]

I guess the quest counter doesn't want to bother with things like hours or minutes; it still says 'two days' and nothing more. A pity. I'd like to use it to track hours.

The other interesting thing is that the Perception bonus has switched to Resistance. Too bad I don't know what that is. Physical damage resistance? Mental resistance? Magical? I'd rather not have to find out. Anyway, back to business.

"Clock. Timer. Countdown. Alarm."

Verkremond looks at me like I've lost my mind, and the system ignores me completely.

If I'm going to be bedridden for the rest of the day, I may as well put the time to good use. "Spell list. View abilities. Powers. Details. Class."

"Are you trying to access your review?"

"Review?"

[Heal: Fixes anything wrong with the physical body. (Healer)]

[Bless: Makes you harder to hit and helps you hit enemies. (Healer)]

[Haste: Makes you move and perceive faster. (Healer)]

[Needs Salt: Summons salt. (Cook)]

[Open Slot: Unknown. (Cook)]

"..."

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