Snippet #1471419

Faera was deposited rather unceremoniously on the ground after the teleportation spell, not really having the ability to keep her balance under the nauseating spell-pressure. She was rather sensitive to things like that, and remained on the ground for a few moments longer than most of the others and clutching her stomach, breathing through her nose to fight the urge to vomit. Zek trilled in her ear, apparently concerned, and she fumbled for leverage on the ground, forcing herself up with care. Too much movement too fast at this point would simply be counterproductive.

When at last she was able to stand, she solemnly followed the others into the camp, thoughts roiling around in her head at speeds she dared not contemplated. She could still smell death, and the scent of it pressed upon her nose, bringing with it memories of the sounds she had learned to distinguish today- the slick puncture of a blade through flesh, the difference between a hiss of pain and a death rattle, between agony and despair. Things she had never thought to differentiate now seemed monumentally important in their significance; she could not help but think this as the Captain's voice named off the four dead.

She shivered involuntarily. Any one of those four could have been her. All four of them deserved it no more than she did, maybe less. And now they weren't there anymore, the lives they had led cut short, the people they had known left behind even as their own feet touched down on the last path they would ever have to travel, the journey to the beyond-life. Though she'd always been told that such a journey was peaceful, she didn't think it much comfort to those left behind in the wake of it, and she would dare not voice the thoughts aloud.

She thought about volunteering her assistance for healing also, but she realized that she was very weary indeed, and didn't honestly know if she would have the strength left. When it was her turn, she approached, fully intending to go ahead and help anyway, but found herself able to only offer a wan smile at the Captain's words. He told her she could use the tent behind her, but she didn't feel much inclined to be alone at the moment. Instead, she sought out the area where heavier healing was taking place and approached cautiously.

"Is there anything I can do to help?" she asked the halfling in charge. She could tell Beezles was here, and Leila, still injured. The smell of her burns made it obvious, really. "I'm not a master, but I've had a fair bit of practice..." she grimaced slightly, well-aware that the reason for this was that Talae seemed to get fairly injured in open-field combat situations.

-=-

Neira glanced around camp, looking for something to do. Her bloodlust had since faded, which meant that she was now bored. She wasn't one to waste the time and energy it took to mourn, but she was not quite so callus as to completely disregard anyone else's need to do the same, so she dismissed the idea of planting herself beside the chatty half-orc and listening to whatever he thought he wanted to say.

Besides, something was bothering her. She was unsure how many of the others had noticed or even cared, but she had, and for once she gave a damn about the answers. Granted, this was mostly because her own life was involved, but the reasons didn't really matter, did they? The Captain had disappeared into his tent, presumably to do whatever it was that officers did when they'd just had to beat a hasty retreat out of a hellhole of a situation that they had not expected to be in.

Well, might as well go directly to the top for the most accurate information, she figured. Plus, she was curious as to whether or not he was actually capable of speaking more than five words to her at any given time. It was probably- obviously- her species that did it, and while she cared not for the reasons, she was not going to deny that it might be rather amusing to confirm the hypothesis at the same time.

She made her approach obvious enough with sound, but one could not exactly knock on a tent, and she didn't give a damn anyway. Pushing aside the entrance flap, she noted that he was sitting at a desk, writing. Ah, reports. How dull.

Crossing her armored arms, Neira spoke bluntly and without wasting time. "Who hates your guts?" she asked, tone bored. "Because last time I checked, sending a bunch of ragtag rookies and a few unstable hands into a fight that big was called suicide. Since I'm guessing you don't have any particular inclination to be dead, that means someone somewhere else does. Or you've just pissed 'em off so much they don't care."