It had been a week since the Shattered Elysium's crash, and the hospital was still in shambles. The once-sterile floors were littered with debris and bloodstains, and the air was heavy with the smell of burnt metal and smoke. The sound of medical equipment beeping and whirring filled the air, mixed with the soft whispers of nurses and doctors who moved around the room.
Vaerin lay in his bed, still unconscious, his chest rising and falling with the help of a respirator. His wounds had been treated, but the damage had been severe, and the doctors were unsure if he would ever wake up again. Despite the state of him, Sylris was the only one outside of the doctors to slip in, resting a firm hand on the Knight’s shoulder and studying him intently.
“You wake up, Vaerin. You don’t get to die yet.” The Crusader whispered, golden eyes narrowing a bit.
The hospital staff had been working around the clock since the crash, doing their best to care for the injured and treat the sick. Some of them had been injured themselves in the chaos, but they had soldiered on, driven by their dedication to their patients.
(TW: Injury, bloodstains, medical supplies.)
The crash had been a disaster of unprecedented proportions, and the hospital had been overwhelmed by the number of injured. It had taken several days for other hospitals in the area to get up and running again, and in the meantime, this hospital had been the only one available for miles around. The staff had done their best, but they had been stretched thin, and the patients had suffered for it.
In the aftermath of the crash, the hospital had become a makeshift command center, with military personnel and emergency services personnel coming and going at all hours of the day and night. There had been press conferences and briefings, and the hospital staff had been called on to provide updates on the injured and to give details about the crash.
Now, seven days later, the hospital was finally starting to return to normal. The debris had been cleared away, and the bloodstains had been scrubbed clean. The staff had a chance to catch their breath, and the patients were starting to be discharged. The ventilator was removed from Vaerin, the doctors optimistic his body no longer required the assistance.
On the eighth day, things within the hospital had continued to return to normal. Vaerin's eyes shot open as he suddenly returned to consciousness, a sharp inhale followed by violent coughing. The room was sterile and cold, with the pungent smell of disinfectant overwhelming his senses. Blinking rapidly, he tried to sit up, but the sharp pain that ripped through his side caused him to gasp in agony.
"Don't move, Vaerin," a gentle voice said from beside him, and he turned his head to see Paithien Runeara, one of the healers from The Order, standing over him. "You've been through a lot. Just rest for now." She added, lifting a glass of water to the Knight’s lips.
Vaerin drank greedily, as if he’d been left in the desert for days, before he looked down at himself and saw that his chest was tightly wrapped in bandages, and his left wrist was heavily bandaged as well. He winced as he shifted slightly, feeling the pain shoot through his body. "What happened?" he managed to ask, his voice hoarse and strained.
The Priestess sighed heavily, her expression somber. "Your airship went down over Tanaris," she said. "The Order retrieved you, but you were badly injured. You have three broken ribs, a concussion, a punctured lung, and a large gash in your wrist from a piece of jagged pipe that you were impaled on."
Vaerin's mind raced as he tried to remember what had happened. He had been on a mission for The Order, investigating reports of a... He paused, eyebrows furrowing. He remembered the chaos and the fear, the sound of metal tearing and the smell of smoke and blood, but not why he was there in the first place.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to will the memories back. After a moment, he opened his eyes again, looking up at the Priestess. "What now?" he questioned.
"Now, you rest and heal," Paith said firmly. "You're lucky to be alive, Vaerin. You need time to recover."
Vaerin nodded, feeling the exhaustion wash over him. He closed his eyes, his mind drifting as he tried to find some measure of peace. His body slumped back into the hospital bed, head falling to the side as he lapsed back into sleep.
The Priestess straightened up, brushing Vaerin’s hair back from his face and making her way to a table, picking up a communicator and speaking into it.
“Admiral, Vaerin woke up. If you could reach out to Warden Silverflame-Bloodhawk, Commander Ashfeather and Wing Commander Ith’valin to inform them, I’m sure they’d be appreciative.” She requests, before setting the device down and slipping from the room.
( @heartpiercer, @thesilvercrusader @thestarsfury for brief mentions.)
Lights flashed through the hospice as Paithien ran down the hallway, golden hues settling on the patient being carried in, the sound of that distress call still ringing in her ears.
Mayday, mayday, mayday; This is the captain of the airship Shattered Elysium. We are experiencing critical failure and are going down.
This is Fleet Admiral Alexander Iceblade. All available units, respond to that distress call immediately. I am activating crisis plan six, engaging Order Magi in all major cities.
The Order's crisis teams - consisting of three mages and four rangers - erupted into action as the distress call went out. All over the world, portals were torn open to Tanaris.
Red flashing lights, alarm bells ringing. Sand and fire. Images of the crash site flashed through her mind as she watched the Order’s newest member haul Vaerin through a portal.
(TW: Injury, medical supplies - IV, Needles, etc.)
"Get him into room two, get Northaren in here.” Paith ordered, tying blonde hair into a tight ponytail and starting to wash her hands.
The hospice was in complete disarray after the crash of the Shattered Elysium. The once sterile and organized halls were now in complete chaos, with debris and rubble scattered everywhere. Patients who were once recovering peacefully were now screaming in agony, their cries for help echoing through the halls. The smell of smoke and burning flesh hung heavily in the air, mixed with the scent of disinfectant and spilled blood. Needles were prepared, IV’s set on their racks. Machines were turned on.
The medical staff were doing their best to help those who could still be saved, but the sheer number of wounded and dying made it seem like a hopeless task. Some were too injured to even move, lying where they had been put by their rescuers, waiting for the end to come. Others were being tended to by overworked healers, who were forced to make difficult decisions on who to save and who to ease the passing of.
Vaerin Emberwalker is brought into the operating room on a gurney, his body limp and pale. His chest heaves with labored breaths as he is swiftly transferred onto the operating table. The room is dimly lit, the only sources of light being the small lamps hanging overhead and the monitors that beep in a steady rhythm. The scent of antiseptic fills the air, mixed with the coppery tang of blood.
The medical team rushes around Vaerin, checking his vitals and assessing the extent of his injuries. They work with precision and urgency, their movements quick and efficient as they move to stabilize him. Vaerin's shirt is cut away, revealing the extent of his injuries. His chest is bruised and battered, three broken ribs jutting out from his skin. His wrist is mangled, with a deep gash where a piece of jagged pipe tore through his flesh. A small pool of blood has formed under him, evidence of his punctured lung.
The team moves to work on his injuries, the sound of clanking metal tools filling the room. Paithien spouting orders and demands as they went. The crisis response team moved with the speed and grace of a well-rehearsed dance, their movements precise as they work to save Vaerin's life.
Despite their best efforts, the sense of hopelessness and despair in the air is palpable, as if the very walls of the room are closing in on them, eager to claim the Captain’s life after he’d avoided death for so long.
Finally, after what feels like an centuries, the team manages to stabilize Vaerin's injuries. They carefully move him to a nearby recovery room, monitoring his vitals closely.
Days passed...
Despite his stabilization, Vaerin Emberwalker still slept. Not a twitch of his muscles, just the slow, rhythmic breathing of the machines at his bedside. The Order’s doctors were busy saving more lives from the crash, so the Captain slumbered alone.
