28th of Frost, Year 119
He wiped the blood from his eyes. Taelian coughed a storm. Beside him was the mutilated, charred corpse of a Dranoch Cardinal, one that he had fought entirely by his lonesome -- and it had been the battle of his life.
"Shit..." he cursed, glancing down at the wound running across his upper abdomen. It wasn't deep. If this had been Silfanore he certainly would've died, as it would've become infected by arcane grime. But this was Kalzasi, clean and brisk, and with only the mundaneness of a forest around him. He nearly cried in response to the pain, though, and the fear. Had he been a second later on his swing, that Dranoch's claws had already begun to swipe straight for his throat.
It was humbling. Even after everything had changed for him, and as much as he now wanted to live, death was as near as it had ever been.
His eyesight faltered, mostly because they failed to stay completely open. Black consumed the corners of his vision, north and south, while the center desperately struggled to hold on to the waking world. He wasn't going to die... but he was going to go unconscious. And perhaps, during that state, he would die after all; from being preyed upon by animals, or from the rupturing of an organ he hadn't yet noticed, or the loss of blood. He remembered this had happened before, but it was when he had Vendrael always at his side. That old man.
Taelian fell to his rest. His eyes shut and he began to feel incredibly calm, relaxed, despite the gash that ran across his chest. He didn't feel any pain.
. . .
His eyes opened. Around him was a wooden home, with wooden walls and a simple layout of decor. It wasn't anything like the rest of Kalzasi, probably because he had gone far out enough to no longer be considered adjacent to the city. There was a fireplace, roaring, as the living room's centerpiece... and all around him there were paintings, of nature and other places. He recognized some of the art; Daravin, the Outlands near Amoren. The river outside of Alsos, which he had sailed through en route to his next and final train. Then... there was one that truly surprised him. A picture of Silfanore at dusk, with a light tinge of red vapor shrouding the city. It was beautiful, if only because it really looked like home. The person who painted that... had really lived there. They captured every detail intricately; from the ruined buildings to the impressive Palisade of Dusk.
He looked to his chest. There was a bandage running over it, with blood partly soaked through. It stung some, but Taelian had always been resistant to pain. He barely acknowledged it.
"Hello," a voice called to him from the living room, lit only by the dim lighting of candles, one on the table and one on each corner of the room. It was a man - of similar height to him - with greyish blue skin, small teeth coming from the corners of his lips and black hair with the slightest tint of midnight blue. He had a young and attractive complexion, with smooth skin, well managed brows and carefully styled hair. He wore furs all across his body, thick clothing tied with bands of wool across the connecting areas. He looked to Taelian with a faint smile.
"Hello," the Siltori curiously called back. He wondered why he was here -- why this man would bring him into his home. Why he was seated upon a leather sofa, of all things, with such proximity to the fire. He wondered if perhaps he should burn his wound shut. It would cause scarring, much worse than what would already come, but it would at least reduce his chances of death. Particularly with his resistance to flame.
