The air in the Grey Haven, Veridia’s sprawling casualty ward, was a thick, oppressive blanket woven from the cries of the wounded, the cloying scent of blood, and the metallic tang of unwashed wounds. Thane, propped against a rough cot, observed the chaos with the weary detachment that had become his second skin. His gaze, often drawn to the flicker of life leaving a body, settled on a nearby medical attendant. The man, broad-shouldered and grim, was preparing to attend to a soldier whose side was pierced by a crude arrow shaft. A flicker of disquiet, rare in Thane’s often placid demeanor, stirred within him. The attendant held a small, unpolished knife, its edge dulled by use, and there was no precursor, no ritual of purification before it was poised to cut.
“Master,” Thane’s voice, quiet and a touch hoarse, cut through the din. The attendant paused, turning with an impatient frown. “Do you not cleanse your blades with flame, or purge them with strong liquor before you set them to flesh?”
A deep furrow appeared between the medical attendant’s brows, his surprise evident. “Cleanse with flame? Purge with liquor? What strange notion is this?” His tone was dismissive, almost offended. “This arrow was not deeply set,” he grumbled, gesturing to the wounded soldier, “there’s no need for such… theatricality.” Thane understood. His own minor wounds, the mere scrapes and bruises from his recent exertion against Ragnar’s forces, had already begun to knit themselves closed with a speed that would alarm normal men. He hadn’t needed a blade at all.
It was Thane’s turn to be silenced, though his expression remained mostly impassive. The sheer, terrifying lack of understanding struck him. Even the simplest field medic in the legends of forgotten realms knew of such practices. Was the knowledge truly so lost in Veridia? Here, where the Blight was a pervasive threat, where the very air seemed to carry contagion, such ignorance was a death sentence.
“Strong liquor is for numbing the pain,” the attendant, now identified by the faint insignia of Master Varen, retorted, his voice edged with pique. He clearly resented Thane’s implied critique of his methods. “A draught of spirit brings respite before the blade. As for purifying with fire, what purpose could that possibly serve beyond searing the steel? You are recovered, Captain. Rest.”
“He speaks truth, Captain,” a voice whispered from the cot beside Thane’s. It belonged to a Veridian Guard, Joric, his left arm bound tightly to his chest, his face pale and drawn but his eyes sharp. “Master Varen is a renowned healer within our legions. His skills, passed down from ancient healers, have saved more lives in the Grey Haven than any other. Many of us, myself included, owe our continued breathing to his touch.” Joric’s attire marked him as a seasoned warrior, not a man of the Supply Corps. News of Thane's lone stand and the fall of Ragnar had evidently spread even to these shadowed corners.
A renowned healer who ignored basic sanitation. The juxtaposition was stark, chilling. It wasn’t that Varen was inept; it was that the foundational knowledge was absent. This, then, was the root of the pervasive Crimsonblight, the slow rot that claimed more lives than any battle. Without such cleansing, infection wasn’t a risk; it was an inevitability.
“Tell me, Joric,” Thane said, his gaze drifting over the rows of groaning, feverish forms, “what is the… the survivability within these walls? Of those brought to the Grey Haven, how many walk out again?”
Joric looked confused. “Survivability? I am not sure I grasp the meaning, Captain.”
Thane realized his language was too precise, too clinical for the common tongue. He rephrased, his voice low. “If ten men are carried into this ward with grievous wounds, how many of those ten typically depart under their own power?”
A deep sigh escaped Joric. “That is for the Fates to decide, Captain. If the flow of blood can be halted, and if the Crimsonblight does not claim them in the first seven days, then there is hope. But if the Crimsonblight sets in, death is almost certain. And for those with deep wounds to the vitals, if the bleeding cannot be staunched, then they are already forfeit.” He paused, his gaze distant. “For grave injuries, if one in ten finds their feet again, it is considered a blessing. Though, if Master Varen himself tends to you, your chances, they say, rise considerably.”
“You seem to know much of this, Joric,” Thane observed, his tone devoid of judgment.
“Aye,” Joric replied, a bitter smile twisting his lips. “I have seen the inside of the Grey Haven many times. By the grace of the Fates, the Shadowlands have not claimed me yet.”
Thane watched the writhing figures, heard the low moans that coalesced into a sorrowful symphony. A prickle of disquiet turned into a cold, hard knot in his gut. Could he simply stand by? He knew. He possessed knowledge that could staunch this silent, unseen killer. If he remained silent, the deaths would continue, preventable and agonizing. His weariness warred with a primal imperative. He was a Veridian soldier, however reluctantly, and these were his comrades, however transient their bond. To simply watch them succumb to ignorance felt like a betrayal. He couldn’t.
The decision, once formed, settled like a heavy stone. Thane pushed himself off the cot, his movements smooth despite his recent strain. He walked towards Master Varen, who was now bent over another patient, his knife poised.
“Master Varen,” Thane stated, his voice carrying an unexpected weight, “I know your lineage is ancient, and your healing touch renowned. But these are the lives of our brothers and sisters, and I must offer observations that may aid them.”
Varen paused, his knife hovering. He turned, a skeptical glint in his eyes. “Speak then, Captain.”
“First,” Thane began, his gaze unwavering, “the blade used to part flesh must be held in the fiercest flame until it glows. This will burn away the unseen corruption that breeds the Crimsonblight. And after each man is treated, the blade must be scoured clean and returned to the fire, lest the corruption spread from one to another.” He watched Varen’s expression, noting the flicker of incomprehension.
“Second, strong liquor, poured directly into the opened wound, will also help to scour away this same corruption.” Thane held Varen’s gaze. “If these methods are embraced, I believe the survival of the wounded here will increase by at least a third.” He added, his tone pragmatic, “The liquor we possess is not as potent as some ancient remedies, but it will serve.”
Varen considered Thane’s words for a long moment, his eyes narrowing. “Are you learned in the healing arts, Captain?”
“Not learned, perhaps,” Thane replied, recalling the vague fragments of his own past, “but my mother was a physician of some skill. I was exposed to her ways from a young age and hold some understanding of the body’s fragility.” A convenient half-truth, but one that seemed to satisfy Varen more than the impossible reality of his true origins.
“I have never heard of a blade sterilized by fire, nor a wound cleansed with spirits,” Varen said, his voice now stern. “If I were to attempt this, and it brought harm, not only my head but yours would be forfeit. Are you certain you wish me to proceed with such… untested methods?”
Thane’s gaze swept across the writhing forms, the pale faces, the slow creep of death he felt so intimately. They were already at the precipice.
“If these methods bring succor, they will save countless lives,” Thane affirmed, his conviction absolute. “If they bring ruin, I will bear the entirety of the blame.”
A flash of something akin to grudging respect, or perhaps desperation, crossed Master Varen’s face. He barked orders into the clamor of the ward. “You there! Kindle a brazier! Bring forth the strongest liquor we possess!”
Moments later, a small, charcoal-filled brazier glowed faintly nearby, casting dancing shadows. A clay jug of raw, potent liquor was placed beside it.
“Tell me what to do, Captain,” Master Varen said, his voice tight, “and I will begin.”
Without hesitation, Thane took the small knife from Varen’s hand. He held the blade to the coals, watching as the grime sizzled and turned to ash, the steel darkening, then beginning to glow a faint cherry red. A strange warmth spread through him, a subtle hum beneath his skin, as if this act of purification resonated with the fragment of vitality he carried within. He then walked to a severely wounded soldier, an unconscious man with a crossbow bolt buried deep in his shoulder. May the Fates be kind. Despite the fragmented skill his own body held from a lifetime of witnessing death and, now, consuming its echoes, this was a living body, a delicate canvas. His first time.
Taking a deep, slow breath, Thane focused. He poured a generous stream of the harsh liquor over the wound, watching it trickle into the torn flesh, smelling its acrid bite. Then, with the heated blade, he made a clean incision, following the path of the bolt, and carefully extracted the barbed head. As it came free, blood, thick and dark, welled up with alarming speed.
“Needle and thread,” Thane called out immediately, his voice sharp.
Master Varen, who had been watching with a mixture of horror and fascination, blinked. “What manner of ‘needle and thread,’ Captain?” he asked, bewildered.
“To close the wound,” Thane replied, not turning, his hands already searching for the familiar tools he knew from half-remembered knowledge. But then he stopped, whirling to face Varen. “You do not suture a soldier’s wounds?”
“After the shaft is removed, we pack the wound with hemostatic powder,” Varen explained, utterly perplexed. “What purpose would ‘suturing’ serve?”
It clicked into place. No wonder the Grey Haven was a charnel house. Veridian medicine, despite its ancient claims, was rudimentary, lacking even this basic, crucial technique. Suture. The knowledge felt ancient, a whisper from a time long before Veridia. He fumbled beneath his tunic, his fingers brushing against the faint outline of the 'system panel' only he could perceive, and from it, he drew a fine, curved needle and a length of sturdy thread.
Under Master Varen’s stunned gaze, Thane began to work. His movements were precise, guided by an instinct that felt both alien and innate, a borrowed skill from some forgotten healer. He drew the edges of the flesh together, making small, even stitches, his concentration absolute. As the final knot was tied, the torrent of blood slowed to a mere trickle. Thane immediately grabbed the coarse hemostatic powder and pressed it firmly into the now-closed wound.
As the last particle settled, a faint, almost imperceptible chime echoed in the recesses of Thane’s mind. A translucent overlay shimmered before his inner eye, displaying a stark, simple message: *Target Treated. Merit Acquired: 1.*.
Merit. He had not anticipated this. Saving a life… could it truly be so simple? What exactly was this ‘Merit’ meant for? Thane immediately directed the silent query to the system, the invisible architecture that governed his strange existence.