Solo That Which Is Power

[Razkar]

Continued from here

36th Day of Winter, 512AV

Rattling Chains. When Wessler he realized that was where they were taking him, whatever was left of hiss resolve shattered like glass under a sledgehammer.

"Gods, please, please don't take me there, I-I I have money," he babbled as the silent group marched through the forest surrounding Provedan's fiefdom, "J-Just name your price and-"

Tortuga didn't speak: he just moved. He spun around and slammed his knee into the man's crotch, doubling him over. A nod to the Akalaks and two strong blue arms jerked Wessler back upright, just in time to see the bearded man pull a dagger from his belt.

"No!" He yelped as Tortuga roughly grabbed his hand. "NowaitI'msorrypleasepleaseARRGHHH!"

One swipe, and two of his fingers fell to the frozen dirt. Razkar blinked at them vaguely. His vision was... swimming... little by little. He knew it was blood loss. The journey back had been as fast as the one before it, perhaps even faster, held back only by Wessler's limping. An arrow in the leg will do that to a man.

But the cloth tourniquets and bandages covering his wounds were now soaked, and he felt hot, sticky liquid begin to trickle down his body again...

"I warned you." Tortuga said, wiping the blade on Wessler's shirt, the other man uncomprehending, just staring open-mouthed in horror at the place where two of his fingers used to be. "Speak again, you lose more. Now move!"

Wessler did as he was told. The group kept moving, Razkar gripping his trophies tight as he trudged behind them. He would not fall here. They had to get back to the encampment, and then...

Figures in the trees. Razkar's head jerked up and saw an archer in the limbs thirty feet above him, tracking their movements with a notched arrow. When he saw Tortuga, the man instead lowered his arrow, turned around and made a bird call. Within moments, it was answered by another sentry, even further away, then another...

"They're sending word ahead," the Burned Man said, keeping pace with Razkar, "To the boss."

"I know."

The words were almost snarled, the Burned Man realized. He glanced at the Myrian and took in the gritted teeth, the furious stare, and... did he same paler? He cursed in some language that was not Common.

"Gods, Myrian, how much have you lost?"

"We nearly back. When we back, you sew, I pay."

Ah, and didn't that just change the nature of Yakob's concern? If you could bottle the avarice that suddenly filled his eyes, alchemists and store owners would have paid a fine price for it. The hideously-visaged human ran a critical eyes over the wounds under the blood-soaked bandages and licked his lips.

"Might cost... twenty mizas. Gold. Get you all sewn-"

"Done."

Razkar rasped through gritted teeth, not even sparing the man a look. Another few chimes and the forest died to a field of churned, hard mud. Makeshift bridges were laid over trenches that lined the ground. Tents were dotted here and there, and the sun was beginning to set over the small hill the old mine entrance was cut into. Sellswords paused in their work to see the victorious, battered survivors return, pushing their mutilated but living prize before them.

Word reached Haev Provedan before they had even stopped at the entrance to his lair. The short, bald human stood there with eyes like stone and a face just as expressive, hands behind his back. Tortuga stopped in front of him, Wessler next to him, the Akalaks and Drykas and human and Myrian in a line behind them.

"As requested, sir."

Razkar saw the human blink, but there was no smile of victory, no gloating in his eyes. Provedan was above such prideful touches. He merely nodded, once, and cast those dead eyes to Wessler.

He might have screamed and raged and been a beast from the lowest pits for the way Wessler sobbed and collapsed in front of him.

"Mister Wessler," Provedan said, voice calm and level as a straight razor, "I have many questions for you. I hope you answer them promptly."

"P-Please-"

Provedan stepped to one side and allowed Tortuga to start manhandling the half-mad merchant down into the darkness. Razkar heard his voice, but for some reason he couldn't see his retreating head...

"You will fast learn, Mister Wessler, that that word will gain no purchase with me."

He couldn't see. He heard the words and felt the world sway around him, the Burned Man cry out as if from across a field... and then the ground rushed up to greet him.

[Razkar]

Yakob was not by any means a nice person. He was a mercenary, a sword-for-hire, and he had long abandoned such concepts as "loyalty" and "honor" as hazardous to a man's health in that line or work. Kindness qualified, too, since it profited you nothing and, often, ended up costing you more.

Whenever he doubted that, he felt the burning again, and his heart hardened just a shade more than before.

My point being, it had occurred to him to simply botch the job sewing up the Myrian and take all of his money, rather than just the twenty mizas they had agreed on. Why not, after all? Once you take decency, honor and basic humanity out of the equation, the decision becomes easy.

However, he did not count on Tortuga.

"Make sure he lives," he'd said to their healer, or what they had that passed as one, "I don't want any... mistakes."

That last word had caught Yakob's attention. He'd looked up from his patient, laid out in his tent, clad in nothing but his loincloth. Needles and thread and a bowel of fresh water were laid out, along with bandages.

"And why d'you think I'd make mistakes, Tortuga?"

There was a smile under the larger, older man's beard, but it never touched his eyes. He leaned forward, one hand resting meaningfully on the handle of his dagger.

"Don't play with me, Yakob. Yer not a stupid man, and we both know how rich healers unexpectedly get after a battle. That savage bastard is still useful to the boss. Until he ain't, keep him alive."

Yakob listened to every word, and thought he caught the shadow of a second condition in the last sentence. Until he isn't, he repeated inside his own head, smiling inwardly, but after that, well... who cares?

He nodded and Tortuga left. The Myrian was moaning in his sleep, words he couldn't follow or understand. The severed head and leg he'd taken from that dead Akalak were in the corner of his tent. Yakob knew better that to throw them away. Razkar had taken them for a reason, and if he awoke to them gone, he would blame Yakob.

He sighed inwardly as he began to wash the wounds. Deep cuts, but no organs pierced or nicked. Still, a lot of blood lost. Not if, he thought, remembering Tortuga's words, when he wakes up. But he had patched up worse before, and once the wounds were clean, he threaded his first curved needle and narrowed his eyes at the offending cuts.

"Alright, savage," he muttered, squinting by candlelight, "You best petching pay up for this..."

[Razkar]

His most fevered and chaotic sleeps always took him back to the jungle on that day. Most nights his sleeps were dreamless, and if those visions did intrude, they ranged from ridiculous and harmless to absurd and disturbing. But he rarely remembered. Not so that night, with blood loss and fresh wounds gouging at his mind.

That night, Razkar found himself back in the jungle. On that day.

----------

The arrow slammed into Yurta's chest and she grunted more in anger than pain. But pain was one thing; injury another. The arrow was buried deep in her guts, and she when snapped it off, the arrow was still slicing inside her.

"MOTHER!"

Razkar roared at her and started running, gladius in hand. A Yukman came charging at him from his right and he ducked down, slicing at its leg without even thinking. The beast went down with an inhuman scream, toppling over-

-and Razkar opened its throat as it fell, not even watching his fallen opponent his the ground, turning, running-

"NO!"

Another arrow slammed into her, the Yukman archer having mimicked the skill very well. Razkar could see it now, standing upright at the edge of the clearing, monotonously pulling arrows from the quiver at its side, notching them, firing.

Yurta went down to one knee, and Razkar saw blood trickle out of her mouth. He... He couldn't run fast enough. His leg muscles burned and they turned like pistons, but he couldn't get there. She was thirty feet away but it might have been thirty leagues.

Yukmen rushed him from both sides. He had time to see one of them charge at his mother, only to be cut down by her, twin gladius' flashing as one and damn near carving the monster in two. She tried to stand, and then their ugly, monstrous faces obscured his view, heading for him.

Razkar screamed louder and cut the hand off one before it could even land its first blow, kicking it away-

-but the other one threw itself at him, heavy body flooring him with little effort, and closed its hands around his throat...

He was on the floor. His lungs were emptying and his head hurt and he could see them close on her, shadows and monsters circling his mother, saw filthy, rusted swords rise-

----------

"Gods!"

Razkar's eyes snapped open and the first things he saw was his own hand, then the Burned Man's wrist. The former was gripping the latter. Hard.

"L-Le'go a' me!"

The Myrian blinked a few times, not trusting his eyes yet. This could be a dream as well, and as soon as he lowered his guard the nightmare would begin again. But it... felt real. Then again, dreams always did. Moments passed, and the Burned Man's hand edged slowly, slowly down to his dagger.

Pain. He felt pain. Real pain.

"Not worry," he slurred, mind realizing just how weak his body was as his hand crashed back to his sleeping mat, "Just dream..."

He rested his head back and closed his eyes. Then a very faint smile crossed his face.

"Not need knife."

Yakob scowled at the woozy Myrian and decided now was the perfect time to get his payment.

"You owe me twenty gold, Myrian."

Razkar heard the words and wanted to speak, but his mouth was so dry he could barely even move it. The first few moments of waking air had exhausted whatever saliva he had left. He coughed, pain racking him immediately as the stitched in his sides stretched, causing more coughing, and more-

"Wait, here...!"

Yakob put a hand under his head and tipped a sip of water into his mouth from the long-cold bowel. Razkar nearly choked on the first swallow, and Yakob gave him some air. They tried again a chime later... and he swallowed it without a problem.

"Right, now, where's my gold?"

Razkar could keep his eyes open now. He could barely feel his legs, but his arms were working fine. An deep, aching pain was throbbing in his side... and his leg... but he was alive. He glanced down and saw the uneven black stitches holding his gashes close together. Not bad.

"I get for you when I ready."

"That wasn't what-"

Razkar jerked his head up, eyes shining with more life than was in his body. But who was Yakob to know that?

"We never said time, just price. I pay twenty mizas, but I say when pay. Not like? Should have said when we talk."

Now tension and uncertainty crackled between the two men. Yakob's hand slid to his dagger. Razkar's slid towards one of the lakan he'd taken from that Akalak. Both men saw the other move. The Burned Man sneered.

"You're half-dead, Myrian. Think you'd even be able to lift that?"

Razkar closed his hand around the weapon, and his eyes never wavered.

"Want to bet life I can't?"

A long pause. For a moment Razkar saw pure fury in the Burned Man's eyes, the gall that he should be denied by a savage, and after he'd used his knowledge to bring him back from death! Did he (no, he thought angrily, it) have no sense of honor, of fairness?!

His mind kind of glossed over the "let him die and rob him" plan it'd mulled over. Funny, huh?

But the moment passed. Yakob had seen Razkar fight, and not just at full strength. He'd seen him rip that Akalak's throat out with those wounds fresh on his body, and then take his petching head off. He knew these creatures healed faster than eal humans, too. So... who was to know?

His hand dropped from his dagger. Razkar's did not move.

"Stay still." He said, voice calm by a supreme effort. "Move around too much and your stitches'll open. And dead men don't pay their debts."

Razkar managed to sneer up at the man. "Will remember."

Yakob stormed out, or as much as one can storm out of a one-man tent. Once he heard his footsteps fade away, Razkar finally struggled, and strained, and heaved...

... and managed to lift the lakan onto his chest. The effort nearly made him black out.

He chuckled to himself and of course that made him cough all over again. Pain stabbed and prodded at him until the racking coughs were finished. The Myrian let his head fall back and breathed in... and out... grateful to be alive.

"My thanks, Myri," he muttered, gripping his new weapon tight as he felt his eyelids grow heavy yet again, "You shall... shall not... be for... forgotten..."

Sleep claimed him again.

[Razkar]

Sobbing. Sobbing and pleas in the darkness. The tang and stink of blood and terror. Piss and shit. Desperation that crumbled to a primal fear and pain that seemed to always be fresh.

He cried in his bonds. Naked and bleeding. Violated and trembling.

He had never known a soul could be tortured. Not just a body. But he had been educated, and his teacher never so much as raised his voice.

"You have told us much. Soon your pain will be over. You have my word on that. But..."

The man cried even harder. He thought his tears had long since been expended, but even now, he surprised himself. The voice slithered closer, footsteps sounding loud as temple bells by his fetal-positioned body.

"I... I don't... I don't know... I told you... I told you all-"

"There are still some... lingering doubts, Mister Wessler." The voice never called him anything but that. Even during the worst and blackest moments, he was always "Mister". "Once you dispel them from my mind, we will be done here."

Hope. The voice allowed it to flower in the man's eyes, let it grow inch by fragile inch. With hope, the possibility, no matter how small, of life, of deliverance, men could and would do anything. Or say anything.

"Tr... Truly...?"

"Truly. This will end." The voice lowered, some ghost of warmth breathed into it. "Your pain will end. And you can leave."

"A... Alive?"

"That will depend on your answer, Mister Wessler."

"I... I..."

Hissing. That hissing. Not an animal, not a monster, but steel sizzling and scolding hot in flames. He had learned over the hours - had it been hours, or days? weeks? months - to fear that noise above all else. It and the sound of sliding coals as the metal was pulled free... and brought over to him...

He vacated his bowels again. There was a muttered curse from something behind him. He did not know what it was. The voice reached out... and touched his shoulder.

"I will ask now, Mister Wessler. If you answer, this will end. If not..."

The sentence trailed off into a land that Wessler's mind never wanted to go again, but his body had been dragged to, again and again. He felt the phantom aura of heat from the hissing steel... at his backside... just past his gentials...

His body stiffened and tears flowed again. The voice was soft, but would not be turned aside, and whispered to him in the dark...

"Tell me more about Takarian... and where he goes..."

[Razkar]

37th Day of Winter, 512AV

A rain of gold fell into the Burned Man's drink, and yet he still rolled his eyes and sighed.

"About petching time."

Razkar grinned behind him, finally on his feet. He'd been off them for nearly an entire day; healer's orders. Twenty three bells of slippery consciousness and gulps of water and feeling his wounds become a little less severe, bit by bit...

And now he was healed, or on the way to it, he had a debt to pay.

The Burned Man shook his head as he chugged the rest of his glass, stopping short so he could tip the dregs over his hand and have the handful of mizas flow into his palm.

"Bloody waste of good grog."

"Now you can buy more."

Yakob actually favored the savage with a smirk. After all, a man always feels more amenable to another when he's been given a handful of coin.

"Good point."

Razkar walked, or tried to, but it was more of a controlled stagger. The Burned Man got up from the camp fire outside Razkar's tent and helped him down to a sitting position. The impact of his backside hitting the dirt sent a jolt straight to his stitched side and leg. The Burned Man frowned at him.

"Told you to stay off your feet."

"I did."

"Yeah, for a day. Yer gonna need at least three or four days of bedrest. Petching walking around like those are just scratches'll open 'em back up, or mean they'll take longer to heal. You want that?"

"... no."

"Then do as yer bloody told." Yakob said firmly, softening the blow by offering the Myrian a skin. Razkar hesitated and he rolled his eyes. "Relax, priest, it's water."

Razkar took it and slaked his thirst before speaking again. "What been happening?"

"Dunno." The Burned Man sliced a hunk of meat from the shank roasting over the fire and passed it to Razkar. Then he took his own and talked through his chewing. "Ain't seen Tortuga and the boss and that bloke we snatched since we got back. Been underground all that time."

Razkar didn't need to ask what they were doing. He knew it wasn't treating him to wine, women and song. But the Burned Man did tell him something else in that sentence.

"So no-one got paid yet?"

A derisive snort. "Not a single miza."

"When they done, we get paid."

"S'what I assume, too." The Burned Man settled back, licking his fingers clean and reclining under the moonlight. The night was colder and bitter but this close to the roaring flames, he was warm enough to smile at the cold. "Now, back t'bed with ya. Healer's orders, Myrian."

Razkar grumbled but did not argue. He was a greedy, opportunistic bastard, but the Burned Man knew his business. The human helped him to his feet and even to the entrance to his tent. Razkar rewarded his "graciousness" with a smirk as he sat on his bed.

"Thank you... Yakob."

The Burned Man grimaced like he'd just eaten a rotten apple, teeth bared for a moment.

"When I find the bastard that told you my name..."

Razkar laughed as he lied down. Laughed at the look on the human's face and his prickled ego; laughed because if he found out that Tortuga was said "bastard", he'd soon regret that oath of vengeance.

And he laughed because he was alive, and healing, and that wasmor e than his enemies were doing.

RecieptHealer's help: 20gm.00sm.00cm

[Razkar]

38th Day of Winter, 512AV

"Wake your arse up, Myrian!"

The harsh voice dragged Razkar back to the waking world, and he found it exclusively populated by the looming form of Tortuga standing in the entrance to his tent. The bearded sellsword looked fresh, but in the sense that he'd had to become incredibly fatigued first. He looked like a man who had worked hard at something he did not want to do, and was glad to have it behind him.

Razkar could guess as to what that work was. But he didn't.

"Checking on wounded man?"

"Paying wounded man."

His hand delved into his pocket and when it re-emerged he tossed a bag of gold to the Myrian. Razkar's hand came up to catch it but, alas, his reflexes weren't all the way healed yet. He grunted as the bag hit his stomach with a metallic crunch. By the weight of it (not to mention the pain it caused) it certainly felt like the promised amount.

"Thank you."

"Yeah." Tortuga's eyes roved around and fell on the stiffening arm and head in one corner. His nostrils crinkled. "Petch are you gonna do with those?"

"Make offering."

"When?"

"Tonight."

Tortuga paused, frowning slightly. "Yakob said you're meant to be resting. Rest of the week, at least, and those wounds won't close totally for another two. Sure you wanna strain yourself?"

Razkar cocked his head to one side. "Why you care?"

"Cuz I'm gonna need you, Myrian. Any man that can duel and kill a fully-grown Akalak without dying afterwards is useful to me, and the boss." He paused, as if making a decision, then spoke again... after closing the ten flap and sitting by the bed. "We found out some things from that human. Interesting things."

Razkar nodded, happy to be turning his mind back to matters of combat, of a sort. "Find things about Akalak?"

Tortuga nodded curtly. Wessler had spilled everything he'd known, from solid facts to rumors. Tortuga had been there for every moment. The man had no lies left in him by the time Provedan was finished. The slaver had kept his word, too. As soon as the last questions were answered, he had ended the merchant's agony... by sending him into the Void with a few flicks of his wrist.

"Yeah."

"Who was human?"

"He was a merchant, a rich one, but he wanted to be richer. Worked with Takarian for years. Had... similar views, or something. Didn't like Provedan, thought he was an upstart." A grim laugh. "Wessler thought he-"

"Was his name? Wessler?"

"Yeah. He thought he was smarter than he really was. Thought Takarian was the winning horse, y'know? When Takarian decided to muscle Provedan out, he helped him recruit sellswords. He was the one that set Takarian up with those petching idiots Rothgar and Varos, the ones tried to kill us in the Sea. After that royal bollockin', him and Takarian went to ground, but he was still schemin', still lookin' at the angles. Not too street-smart, but he knew people. Lots of people. He went to the mines to buy a bunch of stones. Good way to pay people off without leaving a trail."

Razkar listened to it all with rapt attention, even if he didn't understand some of it. (A bollicking? Doesn't sound pleasant...) But he got the general idea. The human, Wessler, was on Takarian's inner circle, and was a man who knew things. His connections and services were useful to Takarian; his knowledge was useful to Provedan.

"Akalak should have protected him better."

"He had eight men around him." Tortuga said simply. "That should a' been enough. They just weren't expecting us to hit him there, right outside the city. Well... don't matter now."

"So... what was learn?"

Tortuga's topaz eyes slid over to the Myrian and the corners of his mouth twitched slightly. Then he slowly raised a finger and wagged it.

"Ah-ah-ah. Don't get to hear everything. Just the broad strokes, y'know?"

"Strokes?"

Tortuga sighed for just a moment and decided to plow on regardless.

"Point is, we learned a lot. But once Takarian found out his pet human got snatched - which was probably a bell after we did it - a lot of that information became petching useless. He's not stupid, and he is street smart, that blue bastard. He'll change his habits, or the ones that Wessler knew about. Make it harder for us to get to him."

The human looked beyond Razkar for a moment, as if seeing the bigger picture. Wessler wasn't the only well-placed flunky that Balor Takarian had, but his death would hurt him. The human's connections, his wealth, his influence among the traders... they were mostly denied to him now. But that wasn't the only factor.

They'd killed eight Akalaks just outside Riverfall. Mercenaries, hired swords, hardly men that the Council would cry over, but still... their war had escalated into the public eye. The Council needed Provedan, though they'd neer admit it; needed a constant and guaranteed trickle of fertile Kelvics and Kontis flowing into their city. But they didn't need slashed and mutilated bodies appearing all over their oh-so-perfect city, even on its outskirts.

Important men, or their cats-paws, would be visiting Balor and Haev both within a few days, giving them both a simple ultimatum: work it out, one way or the other. But do it soon, and do it quietly, or we'll work it out for you.

"We hurt him." He finally said, eyes set and determined, and Razkar thought he was only half-talking to him. "But it's not over, and we need to end it fast. Something, some... scrap that we got out of him, we can use it and get to him."

He snorted again, staring into the middle distance. "Knowledge is power. Something the boss is fond of saying. Remember that rider, came tearing arse up her? One of many, believe you me. Knowledge begets knowledge... he says that too, sometimes. Well, we got plenty of it out of Wessler. We'll see what it begets."

Razkar listened politely to the rambling philosophy (or what he assumed it to be), but knew there was only one relevance in the monologue. The one that concerned him, anyway.

"Once he dead, war over?"

"Yeah."

Razkar thought that over for a moment and cursed his own body. Two weeks to fully heal? Maybe three? And with all this going on just beyond the boundaries of Rattling Chains? He shook his head bitterly.

"I miss whatever happen next."

Tortuga chuckled and got to his feet.

"You might not. After what we pulled off a few days ago, we'll be... a little low key for a while. We'll wait. We'll bide. We'll find the best moment, and-"

Razkar grinned wide.

"-we kill Akalak."

"That's right. We kill Akalak."

[Razkar]

It was not the only fire burning in Rattling Chains. There were a dozen fires outside tents and even more torches line the edge of the camp. The deep darkness of the forest was denied by the fires, bathing Rattling Chains in flickering crimson.

But Razkar had no eyes for other fires tonight.

He stood before the fire outside his tent, high and lashing toward the night sky. Cold air whips and whistles around it, but even wearing only his loincloth, he ignores it. His stitched wounds ache and complain, but not for long. He will not drag this out... but it must be done.

Slowly, he raised the severed Akalak head upwards, presenting it to the flames.

"Myri... cast eyes on your son this day. Feast though your warrior on this gift I bring."

He drew the lakan from his belt, it's brother at the small of his back. He had since come to appreciate the blades as only a warrior could. Well-balanced, razor-sharp, long enough to block a sword but short enough to be used as a dagger. He raised it also, showing part of his spoils of war to the flaming portal in front of him.

"Goddess, I bring you victory."

The Myrian drew the blade around the top of the Akalak's forehead, gripping it by the hair. Once the deep cut was made, he replaced the lakan at his belt and ripped the scalp from it. Then he tossed the head into the flames, watching it blister and bubble and char...

"I bring you souls from glorious battle." He reached down and picked up the severed leg without looking at it. His eyes never left the flames... even when he reached forward and held the limb in the midst of them. "Goddess... I bring you blood."

For long chimes he held the leg there. He watched the flesh blacken and roast before him. He felt the heat sear his arm as he held it, but did not hold it so close that he scorched his skin. After five chimes, smoke was roiling from the limb, and he pulled it out from the flames. Cooked flesh steamed and sizzled under him, and he raised it high to the sky...

"I, Razkar of the Shorn Skulls, fulfill my vow, and pledge myself anew."

The meat burnt his tongue, but he ripped off a chunk. It sizzled in his mouth but he chewed and swallowed, relishing the taste. He had never dined on Akalak before. It was... intoxicating.

Razkar stood before the flames that blew to the west and saw his Goddess-Queen in their raging beauty. He ate until his stomach was full and imagined her sated along with him. And when he was finished, he held up the gristle- and flesh-splattered thigh bone...

It was long, as one would expect from an Akalak. Nearly two feet long... easily able of being a handle.

Razkar smiled and thought of his ruined hand ax. It had been no mere whim, his taking of the leg. He would need to repair his ax, and what more fitting way than by using the bone of he that destroyed it? He tucked the scalp into his belt and decided to wait for the morning to sew it to his cloak. The lakan would stay by his side, another trophy weapon for him to work with...

His wounds throbbed, body telling him that more strain was unwise. Now, Razkar decided to listen to it. He walked back into his tent and lay down and did not intend to get back up for many bells.

Behind him, forgotten in the flames, the Akalak's head popped and burst, flesh sliding off it, skin melting away and fat and muscle only aiding the conflagration. Sightless eyes burned and oozed away onto the firewood beneath them, and soon the sockets stared at the tent of the man that had killed him.

Razkar paid him no mind. He did not suffer the dead, nor the defeated.

[Jackalope]

Raz

Award

Skill	XP Earned	Lore Earned
Intimidation	+2	Facing Death
Observation	+1	A Dream of the Jungle
		Using A Fearsome Reputation
		Using One's Weapon Against Them

Injuries: Broken Nose, Tenderness, Swelling, Pain for about 20 days
Side Wound: Deep laceration, pain, slowed movement/manuvering, 50-60 days
Leg Wound: Pain, decreased movement, 40 days
All require keeping clean or risk infection, loss of limb, death

Ledger: You already took out the medical treatment, so +210GM

Inventory: Akalak bone

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