#65 - Blood and Services Rendered

From the posthumously-published memoirs of Lord Szen d'Jorasco

First: exact no harm. 

That's what they teach you in the healing arts—impetuous decisions kill. Think slowly and clearly before acting. This, of course, is an easy criticism to make with the luxury of hindsight. Let the armchair chirurgeons argue and debate while they drink their wine around their hearths late into the night, long after the embers have grown cool. That convenience is rarely afforded in the midst of battle.

During the Last War, members of the Healers Guild risked life and limb to help soldiers wounded on the battlefield.

I had failed to persuade this diseased woman, mottled and grey skin slinking off her frame, to allow examination. Her less-than-gentle response came at the cost of my own well-being, a topic for future consideration. She glided backwards and disappeared into the dark recesses of the library. I took her for lost, but our elf was not content with such an escape, giving chase with steel and wand. She cast out violet pillars of light, erupting across a shelf along with the back corner as the horror took full shape. The sorceress had her work cut out for her.

The warforged named Clarion—from whose pipes some form of sound or music seemed to be constantly emitting—exited the room, hurrying out of my sight and down a flight of stairs. From behind the house, a gutteral growl soon spouted forth from some infernal beast. The young man, having just thrown off wrestling some inner struggle, made no hesitation in dashing towards the window. I had only the briefest glance but distinctly saw fur and teeth develop, with newly shaped padded feet swiftly carrying the shifting form out the window.

Past the din of clashing weapons, I could make out the other warforged, Cypher, charging down stairs as well, a clatter of tools marking his path. Lost from sight, I had little time to wonder what drew them away before vicious swarms of oversized rats poured out from a wall behind me. Walking stick wobbled and legs nearly gave way, but quick reflexes allowed me to dodge the assault. The dwarf had lacked the same awareness of their approach, a gnawing mass of teeth and claws digging into her legs the price paid for such neglect. My dislike of violence notwithstanding, they would need to be put down fast.

The barbarian continued his onslaught, leveled mighty blows upon the still-standing and possessed suite of plate mail. A strange blackness began to seep out of deep gashes in its defenses. Sluggishness began to overtake the demonic form, but not before it lashed out at the barbarian. Fully encompassed in the swell of battle, he shrugged off the pain and struck back with his fiery maul, the light and shadows swirling about in the aphotic room. A mighty blow found its mark, crushing in the helmet and spewing darkness into the air. Rid of the taint of its foul magic, the suit collapsed to the floor in a heap of lifeless metal.

Seeing the battle taking its toll on the barbarian, I stepped forth and addressed myself as a servant of House Jorasco. My offer of aid was answered by a maddened war cry. Good enough. A deep breath, and a soothing warmth passed from my dragonmark into the savage warrior. Having heard the cry of two more beasts out back and reinvigorated by my work, he charged headlong out the window with hardly a nod of approval. A thankless work, this craft. As it has always been.

Taking in the room once more, I seemed to have misplaced one female elf. The lady of the house looked equally lost, looking to and fro in search of her missing foe. Dafrena took no notice, focused intently on the vermin scrambling at her feet. Bodyguard instincts honed, she threw herself in front of me and into harm's way. Her axe swept out furiously, cutting deep crimson gouges into the rotting floor.

A chilling howling poured in the room from the backyard, pouring in from the open window. The clash of battle did not sound as if it was going quite as well there and would be in need of my abilities. With no time for dawdling, I worked a quick spell to hasten to the window. More hellish beasts, larger and fiercer than previously encountered, closed in on my recently made allies. Yet let it not be said that Lord Szen d'Jorasco flees from combat! I flashed a show of hands, a layer of deep concentration upon my furrowed brow, and a gentle hum enveloped the scene. I smiled at the slumber cast upon the yard until I realized the only target affected by my magic was none other than our form-shifting friend. I suppose my skill had lost a bit of its keen edge these last few years.

Soon after falling asleep, a beast clamped down on his leg. He snapped awake, the pain causing him to revert once more to human form. Anger seethed from him and he cast a silvery moonbeam against the rear of the pack. They bayed and gnashed teeth at the scorching blast, but it was little good against this powerful magic as the largest fell in a smoldering, desiccated heap. Hoping to save face from my previous gaffe, I tightly gripped my channeling rod and healed one warforged for what I could. There! A minor service but all the same I'm sure it was much appreciated.

And then I heard it, the sound all healers—indeed, everyone—know well. A woman's scream of terrible pain, often preceding death, echoing up the stairwell from the floor below. Having spent as much time on battlefields as any soldier, I can also readily identify the scream of a dying man, but there is nothing so jarring to one's core as the aforementioned cry.

The lady of the house marked the scream as well, might even have seemed delighted by it. She turned towards the stairs, but Dafrena had concluded her private battle and shifted her focus to larger prey. The lady of the house clashed with the dwarf, sword and axe glancing off one another. They traded blows, the two dancing to the song of battle only they could hear. With tenacity and grace in equal measure, Dafrena thrust herself fully into each strike. Coin aside, the thrill of combat was her payment for her commissioned task.

The lady's broach seemed a likely focus of her power and I'd much preferred a quicker conclusion. A steadier, more clever hand may have lifted it clean, but the rush of movement made things too difficult for me to pick it from such a distance. Seeing the end approach, the lady attempted to flee but found no quarter as Dafrena savagely cut her down.

Tragic indeed. But choices were made.

Soon after, I removed the broach from the now lifeless body and walked steadily closer for a more thorough inspection. I admit my curiosity got the better of me, being unable to resist a more reasonable subject now. A purse adorned her waist, which I quickly pocketed, along with a small satchel. Before I could grab the latter, I noticed the body growing warmer, the humors of her being seeming to rage all the more. Suddenly it burst into flames and the body was engulfed. I lifted the satchel as well and tossed it away as the corpse burned through. 

The scream below had come from the female elf, who above all still remained a stranger to me. Evidently she had succumbed to a trap of our host's devising, relating, I suspect, to a painting of some interest. It being the only adornment in the house free of rot, moisture, or damage, it evidently portrayed a number of ir'Valish family members. Including the lady of the house. I didn't really look into the matter, but I recall that the young woman-turned-man-turned-wolf recognized one of them.

Seeing nothing else readily amiss but my strange new companions and the painting, I sought after our barbarian. Again, my more base traits seemed to take hold of me as I realized he might be of use in debt for my healing arts. But could he be trusted? Perhaps a small test of his character, I thought, would prove helpful in answering. Finding him down the hall and among the larders, I calmly walked up and asked for payment in recompense of the aforementioned healing.

True, the price of a platinum dragon for these arts was outrageous. His shock was not unexpected, nor his fury at such a fee. Accusations of thievery and threats of violence against my being accompanied this. I simply reminded him House Jorasco would hate to hear of such affairs as delinquent payments or the health of a longstanding member being threatened. I smiled smugly at my bit of cleverness.

The warforged tinkerer, overhearing our discussion, attempted mediation after questions of my helpfulness were laid bare by the seething warrior. "Perhaps we should pay the fee...and we can move on...he could be of help to us."  This warforged seemed to appreciate the long view. Very curious of his kind. Indeed, alliance with a member of House Jorasco would be worth far more than a single platinum. Or did he simply abhor violence as much as I? The barbarian grumbled, the rage in his throat causing him to choke.

A proposal then! "Best my dwarf in a contest of strength and you would have my services. But fail and my price is to be paid." Of course, I never cared to collect, but through loss or victory I gain the help of this party. Either Dafrena bests him, showing them her strength and earning their assistance as payment, or they earn my services as combat physician. Thinking myself all the more clever, my smile widened.

Except the barbarian's honor would have none of it. "Your coin, thief," he spoke as it clattered at my feet. I must admit a giggle bubbled up from deep within me, simply could not be restrained. This one, swiping with wreckless abandon moments ago, had strength of self enough to forgo any more conflict unless necessary. Now that was unexpected.

Had this brief acquaintanceship come forth dead on arrival? The postmortem on this, if you'll forgive me, will need to be thorough. 

Exact no harm, indeed.