Heirs of Hyarch

The streets of Hallowscroft still felt off to Hamond, even after months of living here. Knowing the practical reason of being built on the foundations of an ancient city's ruins didn't make it any easier. They were just too wide, with too large flagstones that were each bigger than a man. It was jarring compared to the normal sized buildings along the roads.

He supposed he ought not to complain tonight. Hamond had managed to win another round of conquest, making him the overall winner with two victories. The extra coin was appreciated, but the real prize had been the look on their faces when he won again. He didn't normally win that often.

Perhaps today had been a lucky day for him.

Regardless, he needed to return home, eat a small meal, and then sleep. Not that Hamond minded being up and about late, of course. People didn't just fall ill on a schedule, and any healer worth their weight had more than one night of work under their belt.

Hopefully, it would be as quiet as the streets were, which was to say, completely silent. Hamond had only seen a handful of people out since he'd left the Golden Cock, all appearing to be headed home. He idly wondered if this had anything to do with the return of the lord's son. He'd probably find out in a day or two. People did tend to share odd gossip with their healer.

Rounding a corner, Hamond was greeted by the sight of a pair of people slumped up against a building just ahead, just outside of the light cast by the street lamps. A pair of drunks, most likely, but it wouldn't hurt to check on them. “You alright?” he called out.

Neither of the two responded. Typical, Hamond thought, and trotted closer to the two. Getting closer revealed the two were both women, which struck him as a bit strange. While he couldn't rule out them being drunkards, he was beginning to worry it was something else. Well, he'd know soon enough.

Reaching them, Hamond extended one hand to the shoulder of the closer of the two. She didn't respond to this either. Cursing his poor vision in the dark, he reached down to lift her, pull her into the light so he could see more information. He immediately pulled his hand back, with a terrible realization.

He'd been a healer long enough to know the feeling of touching fabric covered with dried blood.

Hamond immediately looked around the street, seeing if anyone was nearby, possibly a member of the watch he could ask for assistance. There was still no one other than him. Surely someone had seen these two, had reported what had happened. And yet, no one had come to their aid. So much for having a quiet night.

Bending over with a grunt, he moved the woman out into the light. She was both heavy and cold, a very bad sign. The lamp's glow only made it clear how bad it was. The woman had been stabbed by something through her stomach. This was the kind of wound that needed immediate attention from a healer, and she clearly had not gotten any. Setting the woman down, Hamond studied her for a bit, confirming the worst fear possible: this woman was no longer breathing.

It would not be the first time he had been too late to save someone. It didn't stop it from stinging, a failure that Hamond hated the feeling of. Another if, another regret, and he really did not want more of those.

This was no time for pity or misery though. Hamond stood up with a deep breath, then walked over to the other woman and lifted her. She was a little heavier by his estimate, but more importantly, she stirred slightly as he walked forward. Still alive, unlike her companion, and also considerably younger. He figured her to be roughly his age.

Laying her down next to the older woman, he saw that she was also wounded, although less grievously so. It was a shallow cut along her left side, which left no doubt in Hamond's mind. This was the work of a blade.

To work, then. Pulling the younger woman's clothing away from the wound, Hamond placed his hands on it. “Panakeia logos,” he spoke, letting the energy flow into her wounded body. To his surprise, the energy surged freely into her body as the spell took hold. Even in the dim light cast by the lamp, he could see a bit more color returned to her face.

That should not have happened. Most people should not adapt to channeled magical energies so easily, unless...that was it, then. This young woman was trained in thaumaturgy herself, to the point of her own channels being widened with practice. It was one of the basic principles of spellcraft, that wielding magic over a long period increased the effect of directly channeled spells upon you. Hamond had learned such fairly early in his studies.

Of course, that raised the possibility that her wound and the older woman's death were the result of an attack, an actual witch hunt. That would also explain why no one attempted to help them. He hoped that wasn't the case, since that could result in the culprit targeting him next.

It was too late to worry about it now, though. At the least, Hamond noted, he could always just deny awareness of the whole affair. It wasn't like anyone had seen him heal her. Knowledge of the principles of spellcraft wasn't all that common anyway either. He was probably safe for now.

The younger woman suddenly let out a cough, startling Hamond. He looked down to see her eyes half-open, staring but not seeing. “...who?” she asked raggedly.

Hamond wondered if she was really aware of what was happening. “Don't worry,” he told her, “Just rest now.”

For a second her gaze took him in, with an unsure look. But the fatigue and strain was apparently too much, and her eyes closed. The lost blood had certainly taken its toll on her, and she needed rest.

He didn't have much of a choice. Bending over yet again, he lifted the unconscious woman up, cradling her. It was a good thing his house was so close. He paused for a moment, as that detail struck him. Was it possible the two of them had been trying to get to him?

There were just too many unanswered questions, and he wasn't going to get those until she awoke again. Glancing back at the other woman's body, he walked on down the road, leaving her behind. In the end, he supposed, that's what always happened. The living had to leave the dead behind sooner or later.

He shook his head as he turned onto the street where he lived. Finding the young woman he now carried had put Hamond into a strangely contemplative mood, to consider heavier topics like that. It wasn't like him, not at all.

A few moments later, he was outside his house. It was a small house, with just two bedrooms on either side of the common room, the kind that many a peasant family lived in. But it was perfect for his work as a healer, as the second bedroom was readily furnished to be a sickroom.

To enter while still carrying someone, though, was not a simple matter. Hamond twisted sideways so he could briefly release his burden with one hand while grasping the door handle, then turned back the other way to slowly pull the door open. Using one of his feet to hold it there, he carefully maneuvered inside, before letting the door swing shut behind him with a dull thud.

Hamond would normally have immediately taken her into the sickroom, but the house was a little too dark for his liking. Additionally, he wanted to confirm something. Setting her gently on the floor, he quickly moved to stoke the hearth, both to warm and light up his home. Once the fire was properly blazing, he turned back to inspect his guest.

It was as he thought. Her clothing was colored reddish brown with half-dried bloodstains. Combined with the obvious tear along the side of her tunic where she had been cut, and it was clear that her clothing was ruined, a lost cause.

Well, it wouldn't be the first time he had to do this, and likely not the last. Hamond carefully removed the stained clothes, tossing them aside. If he was lucky, there would be enough to cut away to make a rag or two. He doubted it, though, and figured he'd probably just have to dispose of them. At least now he wouldn't have to dirty any of the blankets he had just bought.

Hamond lifted the now-undressed woman up one final time and carried her into the other room, before setting her on the bed. That had taken more out of him than he liked to admit. He took a moment to catch his breath, he then covered her with the blanket. Hopefully the rest would do her good.

Leaving the sickroom, he grabbed a spare flask of water and poured its contents into a small cooking pot. Scrounging around for a handful of ingredients, he quickly added them to the pot as well before hanging it just above the fire in the hearth. It would take a while to boil, but some fresh pottage would be nice.

Taking a seat to wait, Hamond considered his plans for tomorrow. He had one visit to make in the morning, to check to see if that one carpenter's foot had fully mended from that accident. In addition, he might be able to make time to go see Morgivel regarding the whole First Ascension, assuming the elderly Elefae wasn't too busy himself. Now, on top of that, he'd have to go to the tailor's and hope they had some clothes available for his guest.

Thinking about that, Hamond found his gaze wandering to the pile of stained clothes on the floor. He stopped, a thought crossing his mind he hadn't considered. He scrambled out of his chair over to the clothing, lifting up the tunic in his hands, rubbing it between his fingers.

The tunic, stained and torn, was made of silk.

This was getting more and more complicated. Silk clothing was usually worn by nobility, or very wealthy merchants who had the coin to throw away. And while Hallowscroft was not a small town, it was hardly a major city either. There couldn't be all that many people who lived here who could afford it.

Hamond found himself wishing he'd gotten a better look at the dead woman's clothing too. No, he told himself. He needed to stay out of this. He just had to make sure she recovered, and then send her on her way. Healing physical wounds and ailments was his calling, not resolving their personal issues. He'd made that decision when he first chose to become a healer, and he would stand by it.

The knowledge should be his tomorrow regardless, so Hamond told himself to not worry about it. He let the ruined tunic fall back to the ground, then resumed his seat. He could already faintly smell the pottage, and it was making him quite hungry. Decision making could come later, when he wasn't hungry or tired.