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Date Posted: 00:01:44 11/06/01 Tue
Author: Laurel Goldleaf
Subject: Field Nurse Laurel
In reply to: Erlic Eastlore 's message, "An urgent plea for help" on 19:11:40 11/05/01 Mon

Although Rowan tried his best to defend her, Laurel could tell he was rapidly growing wearier. His limbs moved too slowly, and his sword maneuvers were sloppy at best, sometimes missing their mark entirely. Since it was precisely his speed and rapid technique that helped him make the ranks of the fighting elite back home, this definitely didn’t bode well for either of them. Laurel tried to stay by his side, or even slightly behind him, wielding her knife when she saw an opening, but half the time she had to turn and steady her sluggish brother, giving the enemy a wide open chance to strike.

And even though it was difficult to even think at all at the moment, she couldn’t help badgering herself over her lack of magical skill. Like any earth-mage, she knew the rudimentary skills of healing the body, but hadn’t the slightest idea of how to turn those skills into something that could help her disable her enemy. She couldn’t touch the far too sentient mind of the false zombie, either; only animals generally responded to her mental proddings. In short, she was useless, utterly useless, in close combat!

But what use did a nobleman’s daughter have for learning skilled combat? she thought dryly, watching in satisfaction as the final zombie fell to Rowan’s swords and a quick slice to the neck with her knife. As if on cue, her brother suddenly dropped his weapons and stumbled to his knees as well, his eyelids beginning to flutter closed.

“Sweet goddess,” she breathed, rushing forward to catch him before his forehead hit the floor, “Food poisoning---it must have been food poisoning!” It was all she could think of, considering at least three other members of their group had seemed equally weary beyond belief. She was familiar with several common sleeping draughts and powders which could be slipped into food and drink, and no doubt similar substances could be obtained on this world. How fortunate they had not all partaken of the food!

“Es tu pulchra,” he murmured as she leaned him against the side of a wall. She smiled slightly despite the battle; it was utter nonsense, telling her that he was definitely lost to unconsciousness now. She looked and saw that most of the battle was at an end, but that she and Rowan appeared to be in the minority---the majority of their friends were injured, some very severely.

Laurel was about to leave Rowan and fetch Eremis, who sat huddled in a corner, when a familiar voice suddenly echoed dimly in her head. “Send…Eremis…Dalo’s room…” And then it was cut off, as though the sender had been knocked senseless. She of course recognized the voice immediately as Erlic’s, and leapt to her feet to reach Eremis.

The healer looked very pale and frightened, but that was typical of him. She, least of all, considered his reaction to battle anything but despicable; most of the upper class folk she’d grown up around wouldn’t have acted any differently.

“You must gather your things and head for Dalo’s room,” she instructed, lending him a hand to help him stand. “Erlic is gravely injured, I believe, and perhaps Dalo as well. Hurry!”

She watched him race off before turning to survey the unhappy scene before her. Fortunately, someone had doused the flames caused by the chandelier’s destruction, but other than that, the place was in shambles. Broken glass and what at least appeared to be zombie bodies littered the floor. The unconscious bodies of her friends lay scattered as well, but it seemed they all at least were still breathing. After checking their life forces with her anxious powers, she surmised that Marz was the worst off. Sighing to herself and biting her lip a bit, she approached him, kneeling down beside him to ascertain his wounds.

At first, she simply stared aghast at the amount of blood soaking through the back of his shirt. But after the first few seconds, she regained control of her wits and slit the garment open with her knife, immediately moving to wash the wound clean before doing anything else. She did her best to stitch it closed, though she was no surgeon, and afterward spread an herbal salve of her own concoction onto the injury, hoping to prevent against the ugly, glaring red of infection. Treating the gashes on his arms was relatively easy after that, and once she was finished, she tugged him off Corum and began to work on his friend.

Corum had a slice through his leg, which was not as deep as the amount of blood loss may have implied. After cleaning and stitching the wound up, she turned to the injury on his head, which was perhaps more serious. As with Marz and Tristan earlier, she could tell he’d sustained a concussion of some sort, but was unable to tell how serious it was. Scanning his mental status was simply beyond her capabilities. All that she could do was make him comfortable and give him something for his headache once he awakened.

Tia had a fairly nasty gash across her shoulder, and the girl looked a little embarrassed when Laurel instructed her to remove her shirt. Instead, she simply cut the material, allowing Tia to hold the rest with her hand, but at least freeing the area around the injury. Laurel’s fingers were beginning to cramp as she stitched the wound closed, and her own eyes were beginning to grow fuzzy from squinting so much in concentration, but she completed the task adequately enough.

She moved on to Jeremy next, who had only minor scrapes and bruises, most of which he proudly claimed didn’t hurt at all. She shushed him up and cleaned him up as best she could. Justin, miraculously, was untouched, save for the apple pie streaming all over his whiskers. Lastly, she checked on Tristan, whom she had bypassed simply because he didn’t have any obvious open wounds, but the way he was simply sitting there and staring into space made her somewhat suspicious of his physical condition.

Closer inspection, however, showed him to be shivering slightly, his skin cold and clammy to the touch (which he did not like, by the way, though he seemed too weary to try and push her hands away). “You’re flushed with fever,” she said, giving him a shocked look, for his reddened cheeks bore the only color on his body at present.

“I’m fine,” he said, scowling and looking away---toward Marz, she noticed.

“If you are fine, then why don’t you go to him?” she asked, crossing her arms beneath her breasts. “Instead of sitting here against the wall as though you can scarcely move.”

He didn’t immediately respond, though she could tell he was growing frustrated. “It’s too far away,” he confessed in a small voice, but the hardened look returned to his face, and he brushed her hand away when she would feel for his temperature again. “There’s nothing you can do,” he insisted flatly, “I’ll be fine.”

He was probably right. Besides, though she knew the ingredients for a draught of fever reducing medicine, she obviously didn’t carry her supplies around with her. And though she was absolutely dying to find out how Erlic was fairing, she didn’t dare leave their ragtag group alone as of yet. Sighing heavily to herself, she left the obstinate dragon to himself and returned to Rowan’s side, patting his hand absently as she took a seat on the floor next to him.

From her corner, she watched as Tristan, too, finally succumbed to the false zombie induced-weariness, his eyes drifting shut, leaving only herself and a handful of the others still awake. Hurry home, Queen Kazabet, she thought, beginning to feel uncommonly tired herself, after all the work she’d just done, Your guests are beginning to feel they have overstayed their welcome.

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