Compassion for Numbers [Soren & Ranulf]
@cyanretainer sent Thorunn: One of our muses is ashamed at their mistakes and the other comforts them
“Hm, that’s quite a wound. You laguz aren’t as impervious as you let on.”
Heavy silence followed. A melancholic cloud had descended upon the camp as well, and the usual afternoon chatter was absent outside. No one dared speak of their victories or excitement now, in wake of the last battle. Circumstances had taken a horrific turn for the worst, and the procession that half-dragged itself back to camp was a quarter smaller and just as hushed. Soren had suspected a trap, but it was not he who commanded the army. Regardless, a loss meant fewer mouths to feed, fewer use of resources, and their dead could be easily replaced by any number of mercenaries looking for work. But that was not an appropriate way to think now, and though delayed, the realization came to him soon enough that it was not the physical wound which ailed Ranulf.
“You should go to the infirmary before it gets infected,” he advised, but was met once more with silence. With an audible exhale, he glanced back toward the entrance to the laguz commander’s private tent, half-expecting Ike to peer in and relieve him of the uncomfortable situation. But he was out checking on and consoling others. Soren had been tasked with tallying the injured, nothing more, and yet…
“At the very least, allow me to take care of it,” he insisted, but his approach was hesitant. Those claws could incapacitate him in a single swipe, if Ranulf chose to revert to his more animalistic instincts. No matter how sophisticated and human he tried to act, he was still sub-human, and susceptible to his baser, less rational tendencies. So Soren thought, anyway.
He held out his staff as a peace offering.
“You won’t be of any use to us if you let it fester. Your remaining men are still looking to you for strength.”
