Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

In the end, Arten took it upon himself to tie up every single one of the gathered, including the crying little boy. The chief was still alive, despite the hit that should’ve broken his neck. It was only right for the undead to be tough. At least some of them.

Sunday watched over Pearl as Arten scoured the village for more braziers. The frozen people were slowly starting to move as the green vapor dissipated, but their wounds remained unhealed, and their bodies seemed much weaker.

It was an hour later when everything was done and there was no sign of the green vapor anymore. Some of the tied villagers had awoken and were weeping quietly. Whether it was the failure or the weight of their actions, Sunday didn’t care. It was not his job to care, and he had seen better people be dealt worse hands. This here had been a choice a few had made on their own, and he was part of the consequences.

Finally, Arten came over to him and sat down, exhausted. The two remained silent for a while.

“Thank you,” the man said, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Louder,” Sunday snapped back.

“What?”

“I said louder. You were standing there with your tiny dick in your hand, while I had to do the heavy lifting. Seriously? Those are your people, not mine. You sure talked a big game in Jishu’s cage, but when it came down to it, you let others clean up the mess. So, it will take a little bit more than simply thanking me. And man up, for fuck’s sake.”

Arten stared at him wide-eyed. Sunday sensed the astonishment and the budding anger in the man, but in the end, Arten simply nodded.

“You’re right. Thank you. I’ll do whatever I can to repay this debt.”

“Start with growing a pair. There are some tough decisions in front of you,” Sunday said turning toward the bound villagers. “I’ll not be your executioner too.” But I’m surprisingly fine with stabbing a woman in the face after first melting said face. Who cares, she had it coming. I hope I don’t break down later. Maybe I’m still in shock? Ah, what’s another traumatic event to add to the bunch? I got this.

Arten grit his teeth at that. The veins on his neck were pulsating, and his breathing grew ragged once again.

“What do you propose?” he asked.

“I don’t know what they did to begin with. Why was she,” he pointed at the dead woman’s remains, “so strong, and why is everyone suffering from third-degree paper cuts? What was that green bullshit?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

When Sunday didn’t respond Arten grew even more frustrated with things and ran a hand through his oily hair, then frowned looking at it.

“She prayed. You don’t pray. Ever. You don’t even say their names.”

“Why?”

“Because they are listening.”

“Who’s they exactly?” I swear, people here have issues. Are my questions that stupid?

Arten spat his next words, “The Divine, the gods that walk the earth.”

Oh, alright. That makes sense. So, real gods are walking among us, and they’re some toxic motherfuckers you don’t call on. Got it.

Sunday found himself chuckling. It grew into laughter that almost brought tears to his eyes.

Arten waited it out stoically, while gently caressing Pearl’s head. They had bandaged her cut arm for the moment, and she seemed to be breathing just fine.

Sunday finally calmed down enough to look around once again. “Can you expand on that?”

“You’re really not from around here, are you? Not from this world?” Arten asked in turn. He didn’t seem that shaken from the revelation. “Are you a demon?”

Am I? I’m starting to wonder myself. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen another one like me, and I don’t have any demons to compare notes with. So?”

“It isn’t a secret. It is common knowledge, and if you want to blend in it might be good to know some of these things. I don’t know if it's actually true, and what the real circumstances were, but once we, humans, undead, ranun, goliath, and all other races had gods. Gods that answered our pleas, and gods that cared for their own. However, something went wrong. Where I’m from it’s referred to as the Fall. Some say the divine realm where all gods lived crashed into our world and wiped out a whole continent. In the process, the Divines lost their minds and were corrupted by the essence of the mortal realm. Others claim that it’s a result of something otherworldly encroaching on their realm and chasing them away. A disease that can affect gods… You will hear many versions of this.”

“So, no one knows for certain. What are they today?”

Arten shook his head. “Corrupted things that have twisted all they stood for. Whoever prays slowly falls the same as them. Mortals become like Vela, gaining different gifts and the grace of the divine they prayed to. All end the same – twisted monsters who have lost their minds in blind worship. When a mage falls to their corruption, however, is when there’s an actual problem. Haven’t seen it happen, but I’ve heard of whole cities being burned to the ground.”

“There are constant battles. You will come to understand it better than me, as I’ve never been deemed worthy of such talk, thankfully. All I know is that there’s a great war going on between those twisted by the Divines, and those who protect our world. It is not uncommon for the desperate who hadn’t witnessed the corruption to pray, hoping for salvation. You saw what it leads to.”

“What if they had sacrificed Pearl?” He mentioned before that her blood is poison to the divine. I didn’t understand it back then, and I still don’t.

“I don’t know what happens when an inferni is taken.”

It couldn’t be pretty if she’s as special as everyone claims. If everyone can turn into a superhuman terrorist with a simple prayer, then this world is more fucked up than I initially expected. What’s my purpose here?

“Do you need to know a name? Or you can just blindly pray?”

“Names are important. It is said the Divine feed on belief and life, and they constantly seek it out. One can find out their name by chance, stumbling upon old records or because someone had whispered it to them.” Arten’s nerves seemed to take precedence at the mention of that and he stood up. “One needs to believe. To want it. You can’t just mutter a name and get corrupted. Although some think even saying a name might bring their attention to you…”

Arten stood up, took the chair he had been sitting on, and threw it against the wall in a fit of rage.

Sunday watched him passively, without reacting. He knew guilt and what it looked like. He needed to know those things, even if they were painful. He had to be ready for the world before him.

“It’s my fault,” Arten said panting, avoiding Sunday’s eyes.

“What is?”

“This! All of this happening. I told Vela the name long ago…” Oh, color me surprised. Jishu mentioned you muttered unsavory things while drugged out of your mind. “I didn’t think she… I was a fool.”

“We always are. You loved her or something?”

Arten shook his head, “No. Loneliness. I didn’t love her, nor did she love me. We simply had no one else to turn to.”

Don’t I know what that’s like?

Sunday clapped his hands and stood up as well, deciding it was time to act before his mind took him to places that served no purpose other than to ruin his day. Not that it was going great so far.

“I’m gonna go grab my bag, grab a quick meditation, and then we will see what we can do about the wounded.”

That drew Arten’s attention. “You can heal them, right? Like you did with the horned lizard?”

It will take me days. I don’t want to stay here for days pretending to slap people. I’m bound to be found out… I wonder… An idea came and nested itself in Sunday’s mind. He grinned. “As much as I’d like to go around slapping everyone better, I think I might have a better solution.” I’ll be rich if it works! Oh, wonderful. How didn’t I think of it sooner? He almost cackled but stopped himself, and with the most serious look he could muster, spoke, “Prepare some clean water.”

Without waiting for a response, he went to retrieve his bag. The villagers were gathered in groups, tending to their wounds and watching him with wariness. He didn’t blame them, but it was not exactly the hero’s celebration he deserved. I did slay the foul beast, didn’t I? It’s ok. I hereby pronounce you my willing test subjects. I hope I don’t kill someone by mistake.

For just a moment Sunday felt like something was watching him. He slowly examined the tree line, before stepping over the unhooked net to grab his bag. There was nothing.

Just as he turned back, the ranun revealed herself from between the trees further in the swamp.

Ah, toad lady. I almost forgot about you.

***

About four hours later everyone was gathered in front of the cleaned community hall. Pearl was still asleep, which was worrying. They hoped the devil blood would deal with whatever was wrong with her.

Sunday made Arten take her away into one of the huts, while he worked on his plan.

Arten’s knowledge seemed all over the place, making Sunday doubt the man further. However, it was not his place to question. He had gotten a lot of information, and he was worried that if there was more, he would completely lose the plot.

It was better to slowly adapt to a new environment and find out one's strong and weak points, rather than plunging into the deep end as he felt he had done. Not that he was given a choice.

Two barrels of drinking water sat before him. Most of those hurt were human, so he decided to focus on them. Treating the undead as well would reveal too much, although he was certain Arten had suspicions, even if the man didn’t voice them. For what it was worth, that showed some level of sincerity. Who would question their savior? It would be rude.

Let’s see now. In my name, as the most awesome corpse, I bless you, water!

Two snow-white moths appeared – one above each of his outstretched palms, and then flew above the water before dissipating into essence. There was a brief flash, then there was nothing.

Sunday carefully took a small ladle and scooped a bit of water. It didn’t look like anything had changed at first glance. He could feel faint traces of the spell’s presence – muted and weaker, but there nonetheless. What if something goes wrong? It should theoretically be quite simple. Should I take a sip? No, too dangerous.

He put the water in one of the bowls prepared by Arten and took it out. The crowd watched him in silence.

“I’ll need a volunteer,” he said.

Arten immediately stepped forward. Sunday eyed him. The man was not hurt at all. The weak brainwashed villagers hadn’t been able to do much other than annoy him and bring out the softie inside.

Oh, well.

Sunday handed him the bowl and watched the man drink it in two gulps without hesitation. It was as if the world stilled in anticipation. There was a desperate glint in the eyes of some of the villagers, and the soft weeps coming from others didn’t help.

Arten waited for a few moments. “It tastes like water… but better? I do feel something, but…” he looked hesitantly at Sunday who sighed.

“You didn’t have any wounds. Maybe someone else?”

A middle-aged woman stepped forward. Her face was a cold mask despite the mess her body was. There was blood seeping through the fabric of her clothes. How they were all standing there mostly in silence was a wonder to Sunday, but the wounds seemed shallow at least. The blisters were what worried him more.

He took out a second bowl and gave it to the woman. “Drink some, and pour some on a wound,” he instructed.

She nodded and without word did just that. Seconds later her flesh shifted and the wound seemed to close, but not fully. The rest of her wounds got just a tiny bit better – an unnoticeable amount. But Sunday was ready and noticed. He couldn’t stop himself from grinning. I’ll make it more potent. It’s worth the essence, as I will just recover it in a few hours. He saw the ranun sit to the side, gazing at the woman and him with eyes as wide as saucers.

The murmur around the crowd slowly grew and everyone stepped forward, “Patience!” Sunday barked “I need time to adjust the strength. There will be enough for everyone, just give me a few minutes.” He turned and walked back inside and just as the doors were about to close and hide him from the view of the impatient villagers, he paused. “Undead shouldn’t drink the water. Might kill you.”

Two more moths appeared and he made them fly slowly in a small dance of happiness, before plunging into the two barrels of water. This ought to do it. He waited the appropriate amount of time before opening the doors and making everyone form two rows. Even if they knew he was weird, they didn’t need to know the details about his weirdness.

He and Arten quickly filled everyone’s bowls. Each villager returned at least four or five times and by the end, there was only a little bit of water left in the barrels. Its potency seemed to decrease with time, which was not ideal, but it was a good way to hide his skill in the future. Too bad I can’t sell it; I’d have made bank! Maybe I still could, I just need to fuck off before it loses its healing… No, that’s too low even for me.

Sunday turned toward Arten, in full view of everyone. “Now, we have only your prisoners…” he paused, “and my map to deal with. So, where’s my way out of this shithole?”