Pussisolre was getting on Jeshin’s nerves more than usual. And that was saying something, as the Fey was an irritating man in general.
He was arrogant, sloppy, lazy, and enjoyed insulting others from behind Archon’s protection. He was a shit fighter, and a worse leader. But he was as great at kissing ass as he was at being one, so when Archon split the Throats into cohorts at Two Crosses he chose ’Solre to lead the central cohort.
Archon took the western one, as their path would skirt the borderlands to Juvelin and could see action because of it. He assigned Captain Tini and some up jumped Lieutenant the eastern two cohorts, and so Jeshin was left the dubious honor of holding ’Solre’s metaphorical leash and given strict orders to not strangle the man with a real one.
The pair of captains marched a bit ahead of the forty infantry of their cohort, moving south along some dingy rural forest road no one had ever bothered to map but an elder from Yirps swore would lead them past a place called Pleurian before nightfall.
"I’m telling you Jeshin," The irritating man said, "loads of pussy at a solstice festival. I bet I can score at least three of my namesake before the new year."
Jeshin just grunted in response. They had to be getting close. The road was just about to crest a slight rise, and if the elder’s instructions were right Jeshin’s salvation was coming with it.
If there were another couple of dips before the town Jeshin may just have to rupture her own eardrums. Those were tricky to repair, but most of the time they healed naturally.
"Seriously, once these Phustreek ladies see the shiny uniforms the skirts just lift," He continued, "They don’t even need to hear the war stories like Hogtstreek girls do. In fact..."
They crested the rise. Her salvation had indeed come.
"Would you look at that." Jeshin interrupted. "I can see the town, so it’s time for you to shut the fuck up and do your job."
Pussisolre pouted. Prick.
"Alright." He said, much too dramatically, hand over heart, then raised his voice to one of command.
"Platoon four, set up a drop camp there." He gestured vaguely to the woods. "And tell the outriders to set up one..."
He surveyed the land and finally pointed at a small copse of trees between two fields southeast of Pleurian.
"There. We’ll set up the main camp a bit to the north of town, then have some fun with the locals before stumbling back drunk." He smiled. "Or at least those of us spending the night alone will."
The cohort gave a small cheer at his words. They were obviously excited to spend a night partying instead of shivering in their tents, and waking when it was light out rather than hours before dawn.
Jeshin stoic composure broke and she smiled briefly at their enthusiasm. Marching was both tedious and straining, and the soldiers deserved the breaks they could get. The speech was crass, but no less effective than the one she would have given.
Jeshin even approved of the drop camp locations. Reluctantly. One to the south, towards the high road and with good fields of view, perfect for their four cavalry. One in the woods, hidden and easily defensible to serve as a gathering point if it went to shit at their main camp nearer to the town.
Jeshin would have asked the outriders to scout a few main camp spots before returning, and would have set up another drop camp to the west. Maybe sent a rider to update Archon in that direction as well.
But she was a perfectionist, and in all honesty most of those preparations would just drain morale without providing any real benefit. They were in friendly territory after all. The rider she would have sent to Archon would certainly curse her name for keeping them from the festival.
If only she could send ’Solre...
But there was something important that the Fey was forgetting, and as the cohort filed past Jeshin made a point to glare at him for it.
"What?" He asked. "Don’t you dare suggest I warn the cohort against fraternization. It would both not work and destroy morale."
Jeshin pointed at the demon over his shoulder in reply.
Pussisolre spun around at let out the most satisfying yelp as he was confronted by the demon Archon had attached to this cohort. It was a demon of amputation. Amp for short.
"Fuck you Amp," Pussisolre said, "I told you to stop lurking about."
The demon stayed silent.
"Right, I also ordered you not to talk to me. Thank fuck for that, your voice is creepy." He said. Then he gave Jeshin an apologetic glance. "And yea, I see the problem.
You can’t camp with us tonight, Amp. In fact, avoid crossing within two miles of the town, and keep away from the drop camps unless called. Rejoin us when we are five miles to the south of Pleurian."
The demon promptly left to follow its instructions. Jeshin shivered at the sight. She would never get over just how instantly and instinctively obedient the creatures were. Pussisolre seemed to agree.
"Gods that thing gives me the creeps." ’Solre said. Perhaps the first thing they had ever agreed on. "I get how useful they are. Demons never sleep, and Amp would guard a door for years in exchange for just a single finger. But still."
Jeshin nodded absently. Her eyes lingered on the demon as it slowly crept into the woods. It seemed to make a point of moving in a manner that could almost be described as lurking. Almost.
Jeshin hated the damn things. They were a blight on the world, embodiments of evil who could never die. If you killed them they came right back to life, either in the hells or in the moral world, having lost nothing but time. They grew stronger as they fed on their specific form of human blight, in Amp’s case that was body parts, and could grow to become nearly unstoppable.
A foe stronger than you, faster than you, more experienced than you, and with the benefit of immortality allowing it to take risks no mortal would dare try in real combat?
Jeshin wanted to fight that fight. She wanted to win that fight.
Come on, Amp. She thought. Make a mistake. Cross the line. I couldn’t ask for a better new year’s gift.
The demon disappeared into the trees, and Jeshin followed her cohort into town.
PIC [https://scythiamarrow.org/archive/SplinterGuard/Art/SectionMarkerJeshin.png]
The soldiers made good time towards town, promises of festivities speeding their legs, but Pussisolre’s cunningly chosen camping spot to the northeast was already occupied by a crowded animal pen. The animals themselves were huddled in a clutch of small buildings to the back, but the ground was covered in dung.
The soldiers stopped and started milling about, unsure whether ’Solre would order them to camp where they were or find another spot.
Truly a man of keen sight and unparalleled strategic brilliance, Jeshin thought, At he didn’t suggest we camp near that manor.
"Alright, from a distance I thought this was a field, not a pen." Pussisolre said. "But no worries, we can camp near that manor instead. The grounds are clear and it’s pretty close to the main square."
Jeshin gave Pussisolre a death glare, and pulled him aside for a whispered conversation. Never yank the leash in earshot of the rank and file.
"This isn’t the princedoms, ’Solre," She hissed, "That’s a Doge’s country manor, not a Knight’s home. Doges don’t like mercenaries sullying their doorsteps, especially not uninvited. Let’s swing to the east instead, find another place."
Pussisolre shrugged, then turned to the cohort. "Change of plans. We’ll try to find a spot over there."
At least the man was obedient. Jeshin could work with obedient incompetence.
The backup camping spot was also occupied, this time by a Ufriq caravan set up in a copse of trees a short distance off the eastern side of the main square. Jeshin had seen a few such caravans before, mostly fleeing from one war or another but sometimes in their standard pattern of nomadic movement and trade. They were always a pretty sight.
The Ufriq wagons were made of random assortments of wood in curvilinear pieces as if grown straight from trees and assembled by the wind.
They carried colorful cloth tents, tarps, and rugs, all with at least one side open to the elements. Each was woven in geometric forms and dyed with colorings from across the continent and beyond. Golden threads wove through the cloth providing enchanted strength, heat, protection against winds, and, allegedly, illusions to hide within trees and obscure tracks. Given that she hadn’t noticed the caravan until they were basically on top of it, Jeshin was tempted to believe those rumors.
Each cloth was worth a fortune, and none were for sale. The Ufriq did not trade in gold or coin, only favors and knowledge. They obtained their gold through gifts, and food from the wilds.
Shit, Jeshin thought, Ufirq are pacifists, but you better hope those wagons are being driven by oxen, not raptors. Or else if we camp here the cohort will have a couple fewer fingers come dawn.
Drunk soldiers did not mix well with raptors.
And there one was, poking a scaly head out from under a solid yellow blanket. Steam lifted from the ground below the cloth, and after a few moments of tasting the cold winter air the creature ducked back beneath its toasty temporary home.
Jeshin was a woman of few luxuries, but she would kill for a blanket like that. Well, not kill. Maim maybe. Hurt badly, let’s go with that.
The creature under it posed a problem. Camping next to raptors was a bad idea, but given that Jeshin’s hair was beginning to lift from her shoulders and float in the air the moon was only a couple of hours away from rising. It was full, so that meant the sun was about to set, and they didn’t have the time to circle around Pleurian to the only other flat ground around.
As much as she wanted a better spot, this place was the best they were going to get.
"Hey Jeshin," Pussisolre called, "This is a great place to camp, but let’s go introduce ourselves to the neighbors. It’s only polite."
Ugh, Jeshin thought, Fingers are so tricky to reattach.
PIC [https://scythiamarrow.org/archive/SplinterGuard/Art/SectionMarkerJeshin.png]
Jeshin fell in to ’Solre’s right as the Fey started away from camp and towards the Ufriq caravan. They had decided to camp about a minute’s walk away, to prevent spooking either the Ufriq or the villagers. As they approached within shortbow range a woman stepped out of a wagon to greet them.
The woman was Haco, like many of the Ufriq, and had a short stature, triangular face, sharp teeth, reddish-brown skin, and a pair of small pointed, gnarled ears. Her hair was red and worn in twin tails braided to the sides of her head, woven with gold thread and colorful ribbons. Her eyes were brown, and she was wearing loose, flowing clothes in oranges and reds.
Those clothes could conceal an entire pike, Jeshin thought, with a bit of hyperbole. Pikes were huge. And at least three daggers.
She vaguely wanted to search the woman for weapons, if only to assuage her own anxiety, but that would not be even remotely diplomatic. If the Ufriq decided to ambush them they would probably survive, even though she and Pussisolre had left their main weapons at camp. She always carried a dagger concealed behind a fold in her gambeson, and armor was more important than weapons most of the time.
If it came to a fight they would win, unless the Ufriq had concealed arablests in those wagons. Jeshin discretely moved to put ’Solre between her and the most promising sight lines.
"What brings these strangers to our community?" The woman said. "I am Gzoh, peace speaker of this caravan. May you walk under the protection of dead Dumuzid, who is reborn with spring."
Jeshin repeated the ritual phrase. She had to elbow Pussisolre to make him follow suit.
"I am captain Pussisolre and this is Captain Jeshin. We command the cohort you see behind us. We just wanted to inform you of our presence," ’Solre said, "And ask if you had any requests of us. I can order the soldiers to keep their distance, for example. Or not raise fortifications tonight, if they would alarm you."
Jeshin had to give her begrudging respect to the man. They would have done both those things anyway, but now it was a gesture of goodwill.
"Both the warning to your soldiers and the lack of fortifications are appreciated," Gzoh said, "But I would beg you to move at least to the center of the field. You are too close. Our lives are protected by magical means, not weapons, and the means will fail if you, or any outsider, keeps an active watch on us."
Pussisolre mulled the request over for a few moments before speaking.
"Agreed." He said, just as Jeshin was about to argue. "We will move a bit further out. Thank you for your patience, Gzoh."
Jeshin seethed. She did not like the idea of a potential dagger at their back, much less a hidden one. If she were to plan an ambush on their camp here, she would strike the defenseless Ufriq first then use their magic to get close and butcher the Throats unawares.
An active watch up close or offering to detach scouts to aid the Ufriq would both solve that problem, but ’Solre was technically in charge and she had no concrete reason to correct him on this. She would have to bear it.
"Then that is all we ask of you," Gzoh said.
Then her posture changed, moving from a confident, regal air to a more relaxed and welcoming one. Jeshin presumed that her business had concluded, so now she was about to stick her nose into theirs.
"Will you not think about leaving your profession?" Gzoh said. "Our journey is always open to new travelers. You could have a new path in front of you tomorrow, if you wish."
There it was. Jeshin had braced for it, but it still hurt. Another ignorant fuckstick telling her to stop doing what she loved most. Someone who looked at her and saw death instead of healing. Who saw butchery instead of protection.
The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.
These fuckers wouldn’t last one heartbeat under Jebzel ’discipline’, or a Pryns’ ’protection’. The very fact they had their fancy fabrics instead of a pile of smoldering, pillaged wrecks was because people like her stopped that from happening.
She was about start swearing at the fucker when ’Solre put a hand on her arm, stopping her.
"It’s a tempting offer, but I’ll have to decline," He said, "But hey, it’s not the new year yet. Maybe I’ll make that my goal for this year. Peace to the world."
He said the traditional Ufriq goodbye flawlessly, and pulled Jeshin away from the caravan and back to camp. He ordered it set up another couple minutes further into the field.
By the time he was satisfied at the distance the caravan had disappeared from view and they were almost closer to the southern drop camp than the town. Which sort of defeated the purpose of a drop camp.
Whatever, Jeshin thought, Nothing bad’s going to happen. just get drunk and dance and we’ll get back on the road. find someone cute to flirt with, too. Maybe you can convince them to follow us to Helgvik.
Technically, Archon’s order against fraternization didn’t apply to camp followers, just locals.
PIC [https://scythiamarrow.org/archive/SplinterGuard/Art/SectionMarkerJeshin.png]
The festival got into its full swing when the moon crested the treetops and the bonfire was lit. Jeshin’s hair strained towards the moon, trying to leap free and join its stately movement across the sky. On the ground, Jeshin’s body danced around the bonfire and drank enough the locals were obviously impressed by her tolerance.
Perks of being a healer, She thought, more slowly and calmly than usual, you can find out exactly when your liver starts to really struggle with the alcohol.
Jeshin debated crossing that point and getting properly drunk, but she still felt a sense of responsibility for the cohort, and she couldn’t keep an eye on them when shitfaced.
Plus she tended to get handsy when drunk, and she didn’t know if the locals would appreciate that or not. She’d never been to this region, what did Pussi call it? Puh streak?
Something like that.
Pussi indicated they would, but he wasn’t exactly reliable. Or likable.
Speaking of responsibility... Jeshin used a location spell to get a quick headcount of insignias. Thirteen there, eating the festival food and talking among each other, Twelve over there participating in some sort of contest of strength, twenty six individuals scattered about dancing or talking with the locals and one sitting on the steps of the tailory, away from the crowd and talking to a young man in low tones. Her hand lingered on his thigh.
Good for you Hazlet, Jeshin thought, Have fun, use protection.
Fifty two total, fifty three counting herself. Forty eight infantry, four outriders, and two officers. One person was missing, they must have broken protocol and obscured their insignia from her spell. And there he was: Pussisolre, bare chested, gambeson inside out and hanging around his furred legs, and flirting with a bee who was obviously both not a local to Pleurian and being incredibly awkward about it.
A rescue mission was in order.
"Look at that ’Solre, you broke them." She scolded.
The bee turned to her, studying her hair and eyes. Jeshin couldn’t blame them, she had been told by a reliable source that her hair was her most attractive feature, especially when the moon was full. That and her breasts, but those were hard to flaunt in armor.
The bee wasn’t bad to look at either. They had the skinny form of a scholar, but their pale skin was tanned and they had a couple of wiry muscles so they must spend a lot of time outside.
They had close-cropped, curly black hair and rounded ears, with brown eyes, an oval face, and a faint shadow of a scar across the left side of their neck from a childhood burn or scrape.
A faint brush of freckles speckled their round cheeks. They were clothed like a Joinderite who didn’t know what an ice was, but spoke with a faintly western Varmyr lilt.
Jeshin glanced at their arms, which were held awkwardly away from their sides. The bee had Mage’s hands, dexterous and lithe with long fingers and the strong forearms of a painter. Jeshin felt a faint stirring of lust in her belly at the sight. She had heard stories of how clever a Mage’s fingers could be.
"It’s Pussisolre, wench" The Fey bit back. Wow, he was drunk if he dared talk to her that way. "Just because your language is terrible doesn’t mean you should abbreviate it."
Jeshin rolled her eyes. The two snipped back and forth for a bit before she realized that ’Solre wasn’t going to apologize so she was going to have to do it for him. She did so, to the bee’s obvious relief.
"So, are you down?" ’Solre asked the stranger, waggling a pair of tongs for some reason.
Did he even know their name?
"Um, no sorry," They said, "I don’t like fire very much. And I’m not looking for a... um... fling. I’m Jay by the way."
Apparently ’Solre had not known their name. Typical.
Jeshin approved of Jay’s rejection. Brutal, to the point, and with extra sting by implying that they trusted Jeshin more than ’Solre. She smirked at his pain.
To his credit Pussisolre handled the rejection quite well, for him, merely running away and catching his legs on fire. Much better than that time in Alv.
"Fucking idiot," Jeshin said, rubbing salt in the competition’s wounds, "How is he going to get laid if he burns his dick off? And I’m not healing him tomorrow no matter how much he whines."
She turned her chest towards Jay, subtly flaunting her captain’s insignia and combat medic badge. Jay was up for something serious, and Jeshin wasn’t opposed to that. The pair probably couldn’t make the logistics work based on just one festival, but you never knew until you tried. Besides, they seemed incredibly fun to tease.
"So you have a contract in Helgvik," They said. "Are you guarding a caravan there? As part of a Doge’s retinue?"
Polite inquiry, nice! And she was much cooler than some dorky caravan guard. She was a mercenary captain.
You got this Jeshin, she thought, they are obviously interested in you. And if they are still talking they can probably make the logistics work, too.
"Oh my you are adorable," She said, adding a snort to share her opinion on the skill of your average caravan guard, "No we aren’t part of some fancy Doge’s guard. We are part of a mercenary company, Jay. The Crimson Throats."
Jeshin flaunted her insignias again. Maybe she was overdoing it. Nah.
"Guns, halberds, mages, armor, cavalry, the works," She continued, "You want to kill people and take their stuff, you call us."
That wasn’t quite true. Mercenaries were mostly contracted for guard work, training local militias, trade protection, or even to clear the occasional monster den.
But it sounded dangerous and civvies loved a dangerous woman. She gave Jay her most flirtatious grin.
"We are very good at it." Jeshin finished.
Jay looked at her like she had just stabbed them in the gut and left them to die slowly in the attic of their family home. Shit.
PIC [https://scythiamarrow.org/archive/SplinterGuard/Art/SectionMarkerJeshin.png]
Jeshin knew that look well, had seen it regularly on the faces of her soldiers and extremely rarely on the faces of civilians. What had Jay been through?
Her curiosity wasn’t a priority at the moment, so Jeshin said some comforting words and reached out to catch Jay’s arm and steady them.
They flinched away as if she had just tried to hack if off with a halberd.
Jeshin struggled against a flare of anger at the sight. Sure Jay was obviously traumatized, but by Ishtar she was just trying to help. She was the most qualified person at the festival, maybe even the entire damned streek, to do so.
Jay looked about to faint, so Jeshin swallowed her anger and helped them.
"Hang on," She said, "I’ll get a holy. Stay right here, okay?"
Jeshin had to leave Jay to find a holy, and she didn’t trust them to stay in place despite her order. People did weird things when they panicked, so she glued a marker to Jay’s sleeve with a bit of magic to ease her return journey, then hurried off into the crowd.
Jeshin was normally careful to avoid bumping into people. She was slightly taller than average woman, but still shorter than the average person and so was the one who made way more often than not. But this was a crisis, and anyone incompetent enough to decide to get in the way of a healer responding to a crisis would get out of her way or get bowled over.
Startled shouts followed her path of destruction through the crowd, and after only a few moments a holy looked in her direction.
The holy was wearing the symbol of Gula, so she was competent, and proved it by taking a quick glance at Jeshin’s medic badge before stating her name and asking where the problem was.
Jeshin waved for the holy, Yeon apparently, to follow her and made her way back to Jay. Who had, in fact, stayed put. Small victories.
Some people glared at her with dirty knees or scraped wrists as she retraced her steps. She flicked the finger in response.
"Jay’s that one over there," She informed Yeon, pointing, "they are traumatized and feeling faint. No other known issues. Now if you excuse me I need to go hit something."
Yeon excused her, taking custody of Jay, and Jeshin could finally let herself feel the true extent of her rage. It was a frothing, bubbling thing that threatened to spill out of her and burn her surroundings, like a cauldron of porridge left unattended by some incompetent recruit.
She stormed away from the crowd towards the west and sat on the steps of the smithy to seethe in peace.
These fucking civvies and their fucking ignorant bullshit. They either worshipped her like she was some fairytale heroine who single-handedly stood between the good, honest, hardworking people and complete societal collapse, or looked at her like she ate babies for breakfast.
Jeshin wasn’t sure which was worse.
Mercenary work, soldiering, was a job. Just a job, like any other job with decent pay and shit conditions. Did people worship other people with dangerous jobs, like fishers or loggers? No. Did people hate others who regularly saw death in their line of work, like doctors or morticians? No.
It’s just part of the job, She thought, A part you hate, but you will just have to bear it. You can’t change people’s opinions about you, just how you react to them.
That was hard.
Jeshin hated incompetence, and ignorance was an especially sour flavor of incompetence. If anyone under her command engaged in it she could order them to pick their brains off the floor where they had dribbled and actually use them. They would follow that order and thank her for it, but civvies loved flaunting their incompetence. They were too safe, too certain of the lack of consequences to their actions.
Jeshin punched the steps, imagining Jay’s stupid, pretty face as she did. They splintered slightly, which was viscerally satisfying but didn’t solve her problem.
The problem was that Jeshin couldn’t get over being treated like that. She tried, she tried very hard. Tried to accept the compliments as they were intended and laugh off the jabs like ’Solre did. But every fucking time she let her guard down another ignorant civvi would inadvertently jab an insult deep between her ribs.
You have to retire, do something else, Jeshin thought for what felt like the thousandth time, or one day you’ll shank someone and end up in deep shit. The law doesn’t care if the victim thoroughly deserved it.
But she couldn’t retire. Jeshin, like many others, didn’t pick her job. She couldn’t be a doctor, her bedside manner was so legendarily terrible it got her kicked out of two separate medical schools.
And... As much as she hated to admit it, Jeshin needed to fight. The thrill of throwing herself against a strong opponent, where both sides were confident of victory but where only one side would prevail... That thrill wasn’t just a want for Jeshin. She would rather die than lose it.
I wish fighting monsters scratched that itch, Jeshin thought, Adventuring’s not a bad gig. But in the end, fighting monsters is more like rat catching than battle.
Jeshin stood from the steps, stretching and feeling much better now that she had a bit of space to herself. It was time to get back to the festivities, she was uncomfortably sober.
Eh, you’ll figure something out. It’s not like you’re even close to the end of your rope. She thought. Just get drunk enough you forget this night ever happened. That will work for now.
The small hut across the square exploded.
PIC [https://scythiamarrow.org/archive/SplinterGuard/Art/FullSectionJeshinTrauma.png]
Jeshin was back at the siege of Mirrin.
Bodies lay about, running with blood as the grey dust of pulverized walls obscured everything. The only sounds she heard were the frantic ringing whine of deafness and the thump of her own blood rushing, beating through her arteries as if it wanted to push through her very skin and join her companions’ on the ground.
Shattered timbers hung off the sides of the wooden allure above, reaching through the dust towards her like the claws of a legendary Roc, ready to swoop her up and feed her to its chicks.
Jeshin faintly wondered why she was looking up at the walkway instead of down at it. She’d been looking down at it just a moment before.
She stumbled forward, but was immediately assaulted by a sense of vertigo and fell to a knee. She heaved, and managed to direct her vomit to the left of the body lying in front of her rather than directly onto... him.
Cie was lying dead in front of her. Jeshin hadn’t been able to see his face through the dust while she was still standing, but now that she was closer it was definitely Cie.
His armor was splintered and crushed, scales scattered around him, insignia ripped in half along the red mark. His chest was a mess of gore and ribs, and lay completely still. No breath, no heartbeat. His belt pouch was ripped open, exposing a letter from his husband.
Widower, now, She thought, I’ll have to tell Hathin how Cie died.
She wanted to throw up again, but crawled forward instead. She had to do... She couldn’t quite remember what she had to do.
A hand grabbed her arm from the ground. She jerked back, but the dust cleared slightly and Jeshin saw Yiau lying beneath a large masonry block. Their left leg was crushed and their left arm was collapsed beneath them, but they were still alive. They were saying something Jeshin couldn’t hear.
Jeshin remembered what to do. Yiau was hurt, and she could help. She crawled towards them, beginning to cast a diagnostic spell. They were going to be okay.
A greatsword stabbed down, piercing Yiau’s skull and killing them instantly. A figure stood above Jeshin, face indistinct through the smoke. It leveled the weapon at her.
"I’m a healer!" Jeshin shouted. She could hear her own voice. That was odd. "Let me help!"
The figure hesitated and Jeshin got a good look at her as the wind cleared a brief window in the dust. She wore the full plate armor of a Juvelin knight, etched with the livery of house Dornshade: split sun rampant over blue with a black band sinister. She had piercing green eyes.
The knight considered for a moment, then decided to kill her. Jeshin would never forget that expression, what those eyes looked like in that moment when a person decided to kill in cold blood. Just because they could.
Jeshin sidestepped the sword, surprised at the agility of her movement (Wasn’t she wounded?), drew her dagger from beneath her gambeson (Wait, wasn’t she wearing scale?), and thrust it up...
She was back in Pleurian, ears whole, wearing cloth armor, and with her dagger hovering a hair’s breadth away from Pussisolre’s jugular. She dropped it as if scalded.
"Hells, Jeshin," Pussisolre said, rubbing his neck nervously, "You are fucked up.
But we don’t have time for that. Grab your shit, we have to go. Someone died in that blast, we need to get out of here before the villagers form a mob."
Jeshin slowly came back to reality. Fuck, that was the worst episode she had had in a while. She could still smell the damned dust.
"No," Jeshin said, "I need to help. Send a runner for my medical things, I’ll do what I can with them then meet you at camp."
"If you’re sure," ’Solre said with a shrug, "Bie, fetch Jeshin’s kit and be quick about it."
Jeshin grabbed her dagger from the ground and sheathed it again. She moved off towards the wreckage.
PIC [https://scythiamarrow.org/archive/SplinterGuard/Art/SectionMarkerJeshin.png]
Pussisolre had said that someone died in the blast, but that was an understatement. The ground was flattened, burnt, and debris-ridden for a radius of at least sixty hands around the hut. The body ’Solre had mentioned wasn’t so much dead as reduced to a paste, and civilians were screaming and wandering around in shock.
They had a tendency to do that. Jeshin ignored them.
Jeshin’s attention skipped over the chunks of body, merely noting that they were the product of only one person, but caught at the sight of Yeon. She was lying next to the hut in a recovery position. She had a bandaged left leg and intense burns over her right arm, but there was no sign of a life marker pulsing away in time to her vitals.
She was dead, then. Fuck, Jeshin had liked her. She had been competent.
The next victim was lying to the left. At first Jeshin hadn’t noticed the boy was injured. His father was cradling him and shrieking as if the boy was about to die, but there were many parents doing so to the uninjured children. This child, however, had an intensely pained expression he was trying to hide. Poorly. Jeshin hurried to the boy.
"I’m here to help," Jeshin said, "Drop the boy and let me examine him. If he has a back injury you could exacerbate it by clinging like that. Stop."
"Just leave us in peace," The man sobbed, "That other one said they would help, but they... but they... they couldn’t..."
Jeshin ground her teeth in frustration. Someone had already examined the boy? Then why weren’t they here? You never left a living patient unless custody was transferred, either to another doctor or to a marker.
"I’m better than them," Jeshin assured the parent, "Now get out of the way before I make you."
The parent got out of the way, and Jeshin got to work. The boy was fine, just had a large bruise that would need a bit of monitoring before he was free to go.
Jeshin looked about frantically. Where the fuck was her kit? At least it didn’t seem like there were any other large injuries she was being kept from.
"Am I going to die?" The boy asked.
"No," Jeshin said, "You just have a bad bruise. Shut up and stop whining."
The boy started crying. Typical. Jeshin ignored him.
"Here you are, ma’am," Bie said, handing over her kit. Finally. "I also brought your armor and weapon."
Jeshin took the kit, and also her helmet for good measure. She took out a life marker from the kit and tossed it to the boy. It landed on his lap and started pulsing chartreuse.
"Find me or another healer if that starts pulsing orange," Jeshin ordered the parent, "I need to help others."
She didn’t bother to wait for a reply, merely started walking back towards the main devastation. She wanted to double check that mysterious other healer’s work.
"Private Bie, report," she ordered as they walked.
"Everyone has gathered at the main camp, ma’am," Bie responded promptly, "We are gearing up in full combat kit. The elders have already sent someone to demand an explanation, seems like the villagers want blood.
Pussisolre is fobbing them off by pointing fingers at the Ufriq. Everyone is back except for Private Hazlet, we don’t know where she is. The outriders are out looking."
Jeshin nodded as she knelt down next to Yeon and cast a diagnosis spell. She was alive, and stable, if badly hurt. Jeshin placed a life marker on her, which pulsed orange with occasional flickers to red. She sighed.
"Fetch a line to help with organizing medical aid, bring a litter. There are probably some people about with concussions or bruising that need to be monitored in case it gets worse." She ordered. "I’ll stay with Yeon here, she’s stable but that could change at any moment. As for the outriders..."
Jeshin cast the tracking spell, and saw the faint dots of her targets moving about as if they were shining a light which passed straight through both tree and rock. The cohort was indeed back at camp, with four outriders moving about. Hazlet was running towards the northern drop camp, she must have been spooked, and Jay was chasing her.
Jeshin had almost forgotten that she had placed a tracker on Jay. She had thought they were the one blown to bits by the explosion. After all, the last time she saw them they were with Yeon. Yeon was here, badly hurt, and Jay was nowhere to be found.
"Have the outriders get back to camp and rest," Jeshin ordered, "Hazlet is moving towards the northern drop camp. I’ll catch up to her when Yeon is stable."
And find out what Jay is doing chasing down a Throat at night, Jeshin thought. As she watched, Jay started veering away from Hazlet.
Or whatever it is they are doing. She corrected.