Cold Blooded, Part 2

I still see Jay, sometimes.

It was that...sadness in his eyes when he died. Fear, and pain...and under that, he was so sad. Because in his eyes, he'd failed me. He'd promised, and he'd tried so hard, and in the end he still failed. He was just the one to fail last.

He'd never know it was my fault he died.

Xaxargas changed the world, changed so many of us...but he wanted amusement. He wanted...a good show. His little games. His little pre-conditions for his deals. So he made sure I was strong. So very strong. The lone caveat was I'd never realize it until it was too late. Until the world, nudged by his hand, his will, took my family.

They died because of him, I know. Not me. I tried to protect them. Tried to save them. He murdered them...but I was the lynchpin of the murder. It was all for my pain, my grief. It was me who got plucked from the masses to get his special blessing. Why? I never did learn, if there ever was a reason.

I know if I saw them again, they'd tell me they were proud. I avenged their murder. I made sure others didn't follow in their footsteps. I will live the life that was stolen from them. I'm strong now. So very strong.

I have to be.

I protected the seargent. It was all I could do, even though it cost me. I can live with pain. I've felt worse.

I can't save everyone...but no one dies on my watch.

No one.

------

Christine wasn't wholly sure if the noise she made was a gasp, or a sob. She was vaguely aware of the pain in her leg, a twisted length of metal jutting out of her thigh, blood pouring down into the mud. Her focus, however, was on her face.

Lost an ear oh geez its hanging off

Reemer could only stare in horror. He'd seen terrible wounds before, and he'd seen men and women sacrifice their bodies for their fellows, but both at once and its immediate aftermath was new, even to him, and it was enough to even give him pause. The girl before him had lost more than that: it was only her hand that was keeping half her face was sloughing off.

She'd blocked one of the blades with her helmet. Literally stuck her own neck out to protect him. The impact had knocked it off and allowed the follow-up blade to catch her square in her features, this one shearing rather than impacting. Blood was pouring down her arm, the girl fallen to her knees, mewling noises of pain bubbling from the mess she'd made of her face.

stop stop

"Hold on ma'am! MEDIC! MEDIC!!!!!!!!!!" Reemer yelled, his bellowing voice echoing across the battlefield. He looked away to do so, and nearly had a heart attack when Christine's other hand seized onto his belt. One last hitching sob whispered from her.

Then the wound began to vanish.

"...else. Send it...somewhere else." Christine said, coughing. She'd finally clawed through the pain and gotten a moment of focus, and if there was any world she knew, it was her own. The burning, rending brand cooled as the flesh climbed back, muscles re-attaching, veins re-knitting, an ear slipping back up and falling into place. Christine partially pulled herself to her feet, the last of the damage fading away as she put her hand on the shaft of metal in her leg, her eyes narrowing in concentration, one last hiss of pain flitting between her lips as she slid it out, the hole in her leg armor soon the only evident she'd been wounded.

After a moment, Christine coughed violently. the taste of copper filling her mouth, before she turned and spat a lump of clotted blood onto the ground.

"I'm okay. Are you okay?" Christine said, gesturing. She'd had her glaive weapon knocked from her grip near the end, but it was a simple matter to recall it to her hand.

"I am uninjured, ma'am. Thank you for your assistance." Reemer said, putting a professional face back on.

"...We need to get the injured off the field. Regroup with those who aren't hurt, make sure Vurnir's troops can't pull themselves back together." And hope that Incael doesn't have another Tatterdemalion. Or worse, something like a Blue Moon. Bad enough he likely has a Remnant...

"Understood. You, ma'am?"

"I'm going to get the injured off the field. Once that's done...I'll fall back. Probably. Unless you need more."

"In all honesty ma'am, re-deploying you might be overkill."

----

"WHOOO-HOOOO!" Corperal Berkow said, snatching the throwing javelin from the enlarged quiver that was strapped to his horse's side, his arm jerking up and hurling the length of metal almost as soon as his eyes sighted a target for it, said target going down with a scream. Any army with any quality did their best to weed those inclined to bloodthirst rather than discipline out in the initial training process, but a few inevitably slipped through the cracks. Berkow liked his job, perhaps a little too much, especially when he got to rid down any soldiers beneath his horse. He liked impaling people with javelins too, especially the Blackbird-forged ones that returned to his hand post impalement. If there was anything to be said about Corperal Berkow, it was the fact he liked doing this to enemy soldiers and not women and children. It wasn't much.

"Will you stow that shit, Berkow? You want the gold kids going after you next?" Corporal Matthews yelled, turning one of the Vurnir soldiers over and kicking them in the face when they tried to get up. Let someone better than him drag their carcasses back to wherever they were keeping P.O.W's: he considered his duty done by not stabbing the treacherous bastards when he had the chance.

"Hey, they took all the fun stuff already. So I'll take my...fun stuff where I can find it." Berkow said, adjusting his horse's trot to move around a small mud sinkhole that had opened up in the ground during the fight. His eyes flicked to his left, and then back again, as he watched several more Crown Point soldiers vanish into the horizon-smearing brume that cut off his long range site. The movement of his head was enough to make Matthews cut off his follow up comment. Berkow had too much nut in him, but he had good eyes, and he'd noticed something

"What is it?"

"Do any more soldiers have those flame shooting weapons? On Vurnir's side?"

"I haven't heard anything about it."

"Then where did that smoke com-"

There was no scream. That was the worst part, as the body flew out of the fog. The second worst part was that the body didn't bounce; its backwards momentum was so intense.that it flew perpendicular to the ground before it finally came down near the two soldiers, a spray of mud covering up the sickening, crunching squish the body made as it was driven into the soft, watery muck like a railroad spike.

"Fucking HELL!!!" Berkow said, his horse rearing upward. Matthews let out his own curses, bending down and drawing his enchanted knife from his boot, locking it into the hilt of his two-headed axe and merging their strengths. "Was that another bomb?!"

It wasn't a second bomb. Bombs didn't walk.

Berkow reached down to collect another javelin, and as he looked up it was coming. Matthews, to his credit, went straight for the enemy and did a marvelous feint, faking a forward attack and getting around the gigantic form when it swung at the misdirect, his axe swinging in and hammering him in the back.

All that did was buy him a few extra seconds of life, the massive beast pivoting around at the hip, clamping a hand on Matthews' head, finger the size of corncobs clutching down and reducing his skull to smeared mush with one good squeeze. Dropping the corpse, the beast turned around in time for the javelin to strike him directly between the eyes.

It stuck fast in the scarlet metal that encased the creature's head, and it didn't slow him down an iota. He didn't even bother pulling it out. Berkow considered fleeing or trying another javelin, and went for option two.

He didn't make it.

The wet, thundering smack echoed across the battlefield. The last thing that went through Berkov's terrified mind was the crumbled rock wall he and his horse crashed through before it all went black, the two smashed through the air like they were connected at the hip and weighed nothing at all.

Dark, rumbling chortles came from a mouth that could bite off human limbs in one quick snap, choking black smog erupting from within the foul-smelling void as it did so, the javelin falling impotently to the ground as the beast shook it free.

Then it turned and began seeking new targets.
--------

Screams of pain were not a sure sign on a battlefield: often the more serious medical cases were the ones that could make no noise at all. Fortunately for Christine, she'd always had an eye for what was important, and the soldier screaming he'd lost his foot was a fair choice to tend to first.

"Let me see. Let me..." Christine said, trying to get the man to stop thrashing as she inspected the injury. As it turned out, he still had his foot, but between the muscles that had been shredded and the blood pouring from the wound, he'd probably been on the verge of passing out from blood loss within the next several seconds and dying not long after that. Christine immediately got to work, one hand clamping on his leg and activating her powers, reconnecting the blood vessels, then the muscles, all while trying to ignore the man bellowing in her ear because she had to keep his nervous system active, and hence sending screaming agonies up his leg every time she re-connected something. Her other hand clamped onto his chest, working Stream-based traditional healing to keep him from going to shock from the pain. I envy you sometimes Brigh. Wish I was ambidextrous.

"There, you can put weight on it, Get back to the medics, they'll finish up. Don't kick anything with that limb!" Christine said, helping the man up before she headed onward. The next soldier she found was dead, his throat impaled through with metal: Christine locked the sadness that sprung up inside her into another box and moved on. She was starting to encounter other soldiers assisting the wounded from the Tatterdemalion, either pulling/dragging them back or working on them on the ground. Christine went from cluster to cluster, giving what aid she could, even as she ran a self-assessment.

No trembling. Vision's clear. Muscles ache, but only if I stand still...I can probably keep going for another half an hour, if I need to...maybe I shouldn't return to the lines. Maybe I should go back up Ash...it's been too quiet since he was-

"Ma'am! MISS BRYNN!" A soldier yelled, snapping Christine out of her introspection. "We need you!"

Christine darted over to where the soldier was waving to, knowing what was wrong before she got there based on the position of the three kneeling soldiers. No one lying on the ground. they're clustered close, arms up around his shoulders, that likely means...

A severed limb, in the soldier's case a right arm, cleaved off at the shoulder by the Tatterdemalion. One had a blood-soaked mass of rags pressed up against the wound, while the other, apparently a commander of some stripe, yelled at the soldier to stay focused on him, something the injured soldier was clearly having trouble doing.

"Keep the pressure on! Where's the limb?" Christine said, kneeling by the trio, her eyes snapping to the soldier who had called her over. "FIND THE LIMB!"

"Hurts..." The wounded soldier said, his voice starting to take on the glassy tone of shock.

"It's okay, sir. I can fix this...just listen to me..." Prevent shock, close the wound if I can't retrieve the limb...

"Ma'am, I got it!" Calling Soldier said, running back over with a mud-smeared arm. Christine took half a second to admire the stomach on the kid. It wasn't easy to just pick up severed body parts.


"Get this on the limb. I need the connection point clean." Christine said, producing an Ehetacl's Hand from her pouches and tossing it to the kid, holding onto the second as she pressed it down near the wound. She tended not to use the magical cleaning trinkets on herself for moments precisely like this, the filth of the battlefield being drawn away from clothing and skin and injury, the injured soldier letting out a low moan of pain. "Look at me, soldier! You're doing good!"

"Listen to the Hourglass, soldier!" The officer said.

"My name's Christine."

"Listen to Christine, soldier!"

"Charm's done, ma'am!" Calling Soldier said.

"Good." Christine said, plucking the one she'd used on the injured soldier off and dropping it, as she looked at the one still pressing the makeshift bandage-pad on the wound, the rags now clean save for blood. Angie made such fine product. "Okay, soldier...you with the arm...!"

"Private Gage, ma'am!"

"Gage, bring the arm in close, and when I say so, you with the rags, pull it away. Gage, you bring the limb in closer then, but do NOT press it against the injury. Just as close as possible! On my mark. Three...two...one...mark."

One last squirt of blood escaped the injured soldier's wound when the padding was yanked away before Christine reversed the blood flow, her teeth clenching and air erupting in quiet cracks from her knuckles as she held out her hands, her fingers coiling in concentration while Gage brought the limb in.

"Just...hold it...there..." Christine said, the battlefield dropping away, her eyes seeing the millions of cells that laid before her, envisioning them all as tiny hooks that needed to be locked together. Her world. Bone first, then nerves, blood vessels, then muscle...

"Hold it...hold it..." Christine said, fully synching her powers to the wound. Re-attaching limbs was a tricky business, even with the incredible talents Christine had (and all the effort she'd already expended also playing a role). It was times like this she was grateful she could back up her reputation, as she began to restore the connection on a skeletal level. Spooky scary skeletons...now why did that pop into my head?

"Okay, let go, I have it." Christine said, Gage doing so, the limb settling a bit and prompting a whimper from the injured. "I have it, soldiers. Go help others, or reinforce the lines. I'll make sure he gets back to safety."

"Yes'm. You heard the Hourglass!" The officer said, the three soldiers getting to their feet.

"My name's Christine..." Christine said, more to herself as the three moved on. She looked around herself, checking for more wounded soldiers or other signs of trouble. Wait, what's that smok...

The three soldiers fared better than Berkow or Matthews, but that was likely little comfort as the form emerged from the murky darkness, appearing from within the smoke as suddenly as the smoke had, a stomping, crushing hurricane that lashed out and struck all three almost at once, the soldiers flying through the air in high upward arcs, Christine's eyes going as wide as saucers at their screams as they crashed down on the battlefield around her.

Damn it, no. They went that way because I said to...

No.

I didn't do this. He did.

The figure was nearly ten feet tall, his shoulders as wide as the fallen logs Christine often sat on around campfires. The beast's chalk-white skin was barely visible under the scarlet-red metal armor that covered nearly his whole body, dark brown leathers the color of dried blood under the crimson mithril. The club he held in his hand was bigger than Christine, metal and stone interlocked in a blood-splattered cylinder that the beast clung to via a black ironwood grip. Despite the creature's full helmet, Christine could already see what lay beneath from a score of memories. Eyes set deep into a skull that held a jaw that seemed a shade too big for it, a mouth of slicing, crunching teeth honed to even greater sharpness via tools of stone.

Ihmensel’jk.

The smoke that erupted from the creatire's mouth as he roared made Christine's stomach sink even deeper, though it was well on its way there already. Ihmensel’jk tended to grow large, but even their strongest topped off at around seven feet. There was no way for the Teeth of the World to grow that large...unless they had...help.


Wyrmblood Ihmensel’jk. What have you done, Incael? How many of your own men died to slake the lusts of that thing?

Worries aside, though, Christine never lost her focus, years of training allowing her such temporary divisions. The fact that a giant, battle-crazed mutant was less than twenty feet away from her faded into the background, Christine returning her full efforts to her patient. Some healing you could stop in mid-process, but limb reattachment wasn't one of them.


"GOLDEN HAIR!"

He sees me. Does he know who I am?

"DO YOU THINK I DON'T SEE YOU?!" The Wyrmblood Ihmensel’jk roared, his armored foot squelching into the mud as he began to advance. Nope, never assumed that. "STAND AND FIGHT!"

The wounded soldier had recovered enough to be aware of the situation, Christine realized. The look of mortal terror on his face was enough to yank her stomach back up into place and screw it into position.

Just like Jay.

Never again. NEVER AGAIN. 

"I AM SALKOROT BLACKHOWL! I DEMAND YOU STAND AND FIGHT!"

Of course you do. You'll consider anything you can hit and kill with your weapon a 'fight'. Even if they can't fight. Even if they're on your side. Did they force Redsin's foulness on you, or did you drink it willingly? 

"IF YOU THINK I WON'T CRUSH YOU IF YOU JUST COWER THERE, YOU ARE WRONG!" Salkorot said, bearing down on Christine with the intensity of a rabid bear and ten times the strength. Christine wanted to call out to him, to make him see sense, to just make him STOP until she could finish, she'd fight him then, just stop for ten seconds, five seconds...

She knew he wouldn't.

So she threw a glob of mud in his face at twenty-times speed instead. Salkorot had a good enough helmet that this didn't blind him completely, but the suddenness and impact of it still gave him pause. He regained his bearings just in time for the shower of sparks to explode from his armor from the weapon slash. It hadn't penetrated, but it wasn't meant to. Just to get his attention, make him turn away from the soldier, ignore him.

It was a lot harder to heal someone at range. Christine continued to do it anyway, her left arm extended towards the soldier.

Can't use Soulstorm. Need both hands...Arondight it is. May he be so damn enamored with killing the annoying one that he doesn't notice the helpless one.

No matter what it costs.

"BETTER." Salkorot said, unable to even growl quietly, as he looked at the female before him, mud-splattered and small of frame, one hand out and the other clutching a thin rapier. "AND YOU BROUGHT ME A TOOTHPICK."

No one else dies because of me.

No one.